Kintsugi (Breaking Point Redux)
by Kallie49
Summary: He had tried to protect her, tried to give her hope - and he'd failed. Jean-Luc Picard and Beverly Crusher must pick up the pieces after their lives are shattered by an old enemy. Follows on the events of "Chain of Command." P/C (and also R/T). Complete.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is a revision and extension of my first fanfic, Breaking Point. Many of the story beats will be very similar to the original, but I've substantially reworked the entire thing, added a fair amount, and in response to a few requests over the years, gone for a happier ending this time. I have no idea how much interest, if any, there will be in this version, but I wrote the original story when I was 16 (!), and while it holds up decently enough, I'd like to believe that my writing style (and understanding of characters) has matured and developed just a bit in the intervening two decades. In any event, I wanted to try writing it as I could now, so if you've never read the original version, you can ignore it and just follow this one. Content warning for torture (not explicit—no more than Chain of Command) applies, but again, it will eventually end up in a better place. Feedback is, as always, welcomed._

#-#-#-#

Dust hung in the cool, still air as autumn sunlight streamed through the windows of his study. Jean-Luc Picard leaned, equally still, against his régence writing desk, staring out towards the vineyards, letting the bright room around him fade into the periphery. It was nearing harvest time, but an early frost was expected this week and he would need to speak with the vineyard manager about how they would prepare. He himself didn't have much experience to draw on in this regard, coming late to a business he'd never planned to assume; tending vines was the life's work of his late elder brother, never him. Even several years on, he still wasn't accustomed to ordering his days according to the mundane rhythms of the seasons instead of the precision of a ship's clock. But order, routine—all that had been _before_.

Before she—

He pushed away from the desk, the scrape of wood disturbing the quiet. After all this time, it might have been surprising that thoughts of her were still ever close to the surface of his mind...but for the fact that he had retired here to his childhood home with precisely the aim of never allowing himself to forget.

The doorbell sounded and he closed his eyes for a moment. Of course, the memories were all the more fresh in light of today's visitors. Crossing to the front door, he didn't try to mask his aversion to their arrival; it would be wasted effort in the company of one of his expected guests. There was little point.

There was little point in anything he did anymore.

He steeled himself before turning the door handle. "Good day, Deanna. Will," he said, gesturing them to enter.

"Sir." Will Riker, tall and broad-shouldered, with four pips on the crimson collar of his trim black uniform, shook Picard's hand warmly as he ducked through the door.

"It's wonderful to see you, sir. It's been far too long." Deanna Troi Riker, his former ship's counselor, greeted him with a kiss on the cheek as she stepped inside behind her husband. She glanced around the checkered-tile entryway to the home, taking in the carefully maintained traditional decor, noting the quietness of the space. To her knowledge, Picard's sister-in-law had moved back to Paris after his return, happy to cede the responsibility for the ancestral family home to him following the tragic deaths of her husband and son, Picard's brother and nephew. Marie's choice made sense to her. Picard's remained an enigma.

Somewhat discomfited, Picard managed a polite smile and searched for a suitable reply. "When are you due?"

"One more month," Deanna said easily, as though she hadn't already told him many times in her—unanswered—messages to him. She rested one hand on her rounded belly, smoothing the fabric of her snug maternity-cut uniform. "Though according to Dr. Selar, this little one is probably going to arrive sooner."

Deanna was hardly a thoughtless speaker, but had she really meant to mention the physician to him directly that way? Either way, it stung. "Ah. Congratulations to you both," he murmured.

She winced at the noticeable lack of affect in his voice, exchanging a concerned glance with Will. "Captain–"

"It's not 'captain' anymore, Counselor," he cut her off, then immediately regretted his curt tone. No matter that he would rather they not be here at all; the very least he could be, in the event, was cordial. "Forgive me. I—haven't had any company in some time."

Deanna waved it off graciously. "It's all right." She smiled, determined to make a connection with him, but first needing to make it past the awkwardness of the entryway. "Your home is lovely," she offered. "We were hoping we could visit for a little while. May we come in?"

He hesitated fractionally, but there was really no way to decline without further offense—and for all his many faults, inhospitality had never been among them. "Yes, of course." He gestured them towards the sitting area in the parlor. "May I get you something to drink?"

Riker cleared his throat. "Water would be good for both of us, thank you." He waited as Picard filled a few glasses from the adjoining kitchen, then took the glasses from him and handed one to Deanna as he settled down next to her on the vintage upholstered sofa. He took a sip of ice water and waited for Deanna to the take the lead, as they'd agreed. He knew she was the best at this, but couldn't help but question whether whether even she would be able to reach him. It was disconcerting to see his mentor, his _friend_, who'd always been the embodiment of confident authority, so closed in on himself that even the space he occupied seemed smaller, somehow.

Picard took his seat across from them in the parlor, face drawn, eyes not quite meeting either of theirs.

Deanna's voice was full of warmth and concern as she broke the quiet. "How are you feeling, Jean-Luc?"

He'd corrected her use of his non-existent rank, but the familiar address jarred. Picard grimaced, wondering whether he could yet avoid this joint counseling session attempt without crossing the line again to incivility. If he were capable of pretending that all was well, that he was adjusted to his new life and unburdened by the past, perhaps he could deflect them; but he wasn't, and he couldn't. And after years of being put off, they were unlikely to be leaving anytime soon.

He let out a breath, his shoulders hunching slightly forward. "What would you have me say?"

"The truth," she suggested gently. "As your friends, we care about you and how you're doing." When he didn't respond, Deanna pressed her lips together and studied him, deciding finally to be more direct. "You know, no one else understood why you would retire at such a high point in your career."

"But you did."

She nodded carefully. "I—we—knew that it was Beverly. We knew that you were shattered by her death. What we didn't know, and don't know, is why you feel so guilty."

He was silent.

She exchanged another glance with Will, who nodded grimly for her to continue, and pressed further. "She didn't suffer in the accident, and you weren't to blame."

Nearly choking on his next breath, Picard met her dark eyes and the intensity in his, suddenly burning, shocked the empath as much as the mental outpouring that statement provoked. Self-loathing crashed against her mind like a buffeting wave, and she flinched.

Riker set down his glass in alarm, reached out for her. "Deanna?"

She shook her head and held up a hand, still processing the emotions she was perceiving. "Sir," she breathed a moment later, leaning forward, dark hair falling over her shoulders, "this is killing you. If you truly don't want to talk to us about whatever happened, then please, confide in someone else. But don't continue living like this."

_You don't understand_, he thought bitterly. _It's all I have._

"You don't _deserve_ this."

That provoked a response. "Oh, yes, Counselor," he said grimly. "I have no doubt that I do." His expression was empty now, the flaring of emotion back under tight control, and he lapsed back into silence.

Riker narrowed his eyes, growing frustrated at the older man's stubborn refusal to be more forthcoming. Depression, they'd expected—this suddenly appeared to be something entirely different. "Jean-Luc, what _happened_?" he demanded. "Beverly was our friend, too— do you think you're the only one entitled to grieve for her? Isn't that pretty damned selfish of you?"

"Will," Deanna said, touching his arm to calm the outburst, but he brushed off the attempt and continued forcefully: "What aren't you telling us?"

Startled by the challenge, Picard stared at him for a moment, then seemed to deflate even further. "You're right, Will," he said at last, his voice hollow. "It's not my secret to keep, is it. I'm sorry. You should know." He stood and walked to his desk across the room. After a hesitation, he worked up his courage and dug out an alien-styled padd buried at the back of one drawer. "Do you recognize this?"

Riker did immediately, and an ominous feeling began to well in him as the anger subsided. "It's the padd the Cardassians wanted me to give you after the treaty ceremonies were concluded, isn't it."

_That_ was the day, Deanna realized. It wasn't the difficult day of the memorial service at which, stoic and withdrawn, he'd barely said a single word to anyone before his resignation went through—it was the day _before_, the day of the treaty, that the despair the captain had felt since his recovery had deepened to such a degree that no one, not even she, could get through to him. Something about the timing had always made her wonder...but then again she'd been grieving so much herself, and he'd never confided anything...

Picard nodded, though the action was a while in coming. Finally he held it out to them. "You—you don't have to watch; I understand. If you do...please mute the sound."

Warily, not quite knowing what he expected to see, Riker took the padd from him, found the control and turned on the viewscreen for both of them. He blanched, and Deanna's hand flew to her mouth at the sight–


	2. Chapter 2

"Are we there yet?"

From the pilot's seat, Jean-Luc Picard threw an amused look over his shoulder at his companion, smiling dryly at him from her perch in the aft seating compartment of their shuttlecraft. "What, are you getting tired of my company?"

Beverly Crusher shook her head, auburn hair brushing her shoulders. Dressed, like him, in civilian clothes—in her case, a lightweight sage-green sweater and khaki slacks, while he was in dark trousers with a warm grey pullover—she made a show of shifting around uncomfortably on the spartan couch before standing with a sigh. "_You_ are delightful company, Jean-Luc. The quarters, on the other hand...are dismal."

"Starfleet's finest travel accommodations, they are not," he allowed. He checked the autopilot settings once more and confirmed the time before swiveling around in his chair to face her with a smile. "At least it's not much longer. Somehow I believe you can manage."

"Hmm. Maybe. And I suppose I _did_ just get to spend some nice, relaxing days in the sunshine on some gorgeous beaches," the doctor mused, replicating a fizzy drink for herself and returning to her seat.

"Yes. With delightful company," he reminded her.

She pretended to consider, giving him an appraising look as she sipped her drink. "But...mainly gorgeous beaches."

He laughed. "I see where I stand," he said, and her eyes twinkled. Though the reason for their trip had officially been a conference, it had been a very pleasant few vacation days as well. He had been surprised when she invited him to come, as they'd never taken a trip together quite like this. Despite the decades-long closeness of their friendship, despite the mutual attraction that they both recognized underlay it, they were always careful to respect the invisible lines to which they kept; and 'vacation' seemed to be beyond the bounds. Whatever the reason she had decided it was now all right to cross this line, and not others, he'd deliberately chosen not to question. While he did still wish that one day she might change her mind about the possibilities between them, in the meantime he would never regret spending time with his best friend. The beautiful, paradisiacal setting had only made it all the more enjoyable.

Unfortunately for his mood, however, the return to routine, to duty and responsibility, loomed ever larger the nearer they drew to home, and he was having trouble shaking the vague, growing unease that was settling in to a degree much beyond what was normal after a return from vacation—not that he took them frequently. There were particular reasons to be anxious ahead of _this_ return… His smile faded.

Beverly picked up on his troubled expression, and, characteristically, intuited the reason for it. "Are you getting worried about the negotiations?" she asked, turning more somber.

He sighed and ran a hand over the grey fringe of hair at the back of his head. "Yes," he admitted, honest with her in a way he could be with very few others. She pulled her legs up under her and shifted to make room for him on the couch as he joined her. "I've dealt with the Cardassians many times, of course, since my abduction. But since the admiral forwarded the final list of representatives before we left…"

"I meant to ask you about that," she said, concerned. "You seemed upset when it came through. Who was on it?"

It was still hard to even pronounce the name. "Gul Madred."

"What?" She set her glass to the side, stunned. "They can't—what happened?"

"I'm not entirely sure, but there have been multiple changes to the original proposed slate, and now Gul Evek is gone and Madred is to be chief aide to the delegation. To her credit, Admiral Nechayev tried to change things, but she was not able to." He glanced down at his hands, clenched together. The breathtaking display of bad faith did not bode well for either himself or the actual negotiations, but he'd understood they had little leverage to employ in the matter. "I assured her I was perfectly capable of dealing with the situation."

"But you're not entirely sure of that," she observed.

"No." It was a difficult admission to make, even to her. "The measure has been made to intimidate me, of course, as the primary Federation representative. I cannot let it do so. Whatever control he once exercised over me, he will not now. And yet, the memories are still there, and I have no doubt he will exploit that at every opportunity."

"To hell with that—they should never _think_ to put you in that position. I can't believe the admiral actually backed down." Her voice was tight with suppressed fury. "On second thought, I can. Jean-Luc—" she leaned forward, catching his eye, urgently wanting to reassure him "—you can't let him affect you. You have to remember you have beaten him already."

He didn't respond to that. She was correct, in a sense: in the end, he had not surrendered his mental control under the Cardassian's brutal torture of him, but it had been a desperately near thing. And he also remembered, as he looked at her, the moment when he'd been offered his freedom in exchange for her safety. His choice to stay with Madred so that she would not be tortured was one he had never confided to her, but—no matter that Madred's threat had been a lie—in that moment he had been broken.

"Jean-Luc?"

He realized she had said his name once already, and he collected himself and gave a half-smile, laying a hand on her forearm. "Beverly, I'll be all right."

"I know. I mean, I'm _worried_, but—" She covered his hand with her own and squeezed it tightly. Her blue eyes were fierce with concern for him. "You are the strongest man I've ever met. I know you'll be fine. You'll just have to go into these negotiations and be resolved not to let a single word he says rattle you, all right?"

His smile was real now. "Yes, sir."

She nodded firmly, returning his smile. "Good."

But her eyes were still troubled, and on impulse he lifted one arm, encouraging her to shift closer. "Here." She exhaled and nestled securely, almost too perfectly, against him; and he relaxed at the reassuring warmth of her, felt the tension gradually ebb. The intimacy was more than they usually indulged, but somehow neither of them seemed inclined to pull away.

After a few quiet minutes she stirred and turned her head towards him, her pensiveness replaced by a hint of humor. "Jean-Luc?"

"Yes?"

"This couch is really, _dismally_ uncomfortable."

Picard chuckled, but before he could reply the comm signal chimed from the front of the shuttle. Easing his arm from her shoulders, already missing her warmth even as he acknowledged the moment couldn't have lasted, he sighed and moved forward to the cockpit. "It's the _Enterprise_," he told her as she retrieved her drink from the table aft. His tone changed as he answered the call. "This is shuttlecraft _Cousteau_," he said into the speaker, his voice cool and professional.

"_Captain,_" came Will Riker's voice, "_we wanted to confirm your ETA_."

He glanced down to see how much time had passed. "We read it as 1730, Number One."

"_Very good, sir. I trust the conference went well?_"

"Oh, indeed, Commander. It was quite an—educational experience."

"_I look forward to hearing about it_," Riker said. "_We'll see you soon, then. Riker out._"

He felt Beverly's presence behind him as he broke the connection. "That was an interesting choice of words," she said innocently, sipping again from her glass.

"What do you mean?" he asked, glancing back at her over his shoulder.

"'Educational experience,'" she reminded him. "Jean-Luc, the conference was on Risa. How exactly do you suppose Will Riker is going to interpret a comment like _that_?"

He suppressed a smile as he turned to face her. "Beverly, it _was_ a scientific conference—"

"—on Risa—"

"—and you presented a talk on ethics in medical diplomacy—"

"On Risa."

He tried again. "But we've attended other conferences before. I don't think anyone will assume…"

"I'm pretty sure they'll assume."

_Damn_. The hidden smile finally escaped him as he raised an eyebrow at her. "Do you think we could simply tell them nothing happened?"

She shrugged, the corners of her lips curving upwards as she drifted closer to him. "Do you think anyone would believe it?"

He shook his head, becoming distracted by the soft waves of hair framing her face, by the perfect shade of rose on her lips. Several months ago, after Kesprytt, he'd misread her, to his lasting regret; but as he felt the magnetic pull between them, saw the suggestive glimmer in her eyes, he was all but certain he wasn't mistaking her now. After a week of exactly the kind of flirting everyone likely suspected them of anyway, it might be utterly ridiculous to consider acting minutes before arriving home.

But then again, it might not.

His voice dropped to a low, velvety baritone. "Beverly, I am beginning to suspect that _you_ may have made some assumptions about us at this conference when you invited me along." He lifted his hands to the curve of her hips, saw her lips part slightly, felt a thrill of anticipation race through him. After so long...

"Jean-Luc, I'm certain I have no idea what you're talking about," she murmured, and then he brought his mouth to hers.

The sweetness of her lips was intoxicating and though he'd intended, perhaps, to kiss her only softly, as she eagerly responded he found he wanted more. Drinking her in, enveloping her in his arms as she slid her own arms around his neck and pressed against his body, he savored every delicious sensation. He slipped a hand under the hem of her sweater to feel the smooth skin of her back, pulling her closer still, and she hungrily deepened their kiss—

The drink she was still holding sloshed in her grip, threatening to spill all over his back, and she broke off from him hastily, laughing at herself, to get rid of the offending glass. With a graceful sweep she returned to his arms directly, a deep blush suffusing her complexion as she met his gaze. "Jean-Luc, that was..." She trailed off, searched for the words.

Tracing circles on her back, he couldn't resist the opening. "Educational?" he supplied, with a wry smile.

She laughed again and poked at his shoulder. "I think I was going to say 'amazing,' but that will do."

"Ah." He leaned in to kiss her again, more restrained this time, pleased beyond measure that it seemed to make her so happy.

The navigational control system beeped an alert and Beverly disengaged slightly, catching her breath and glancing towards the cockpit and back to him. "When do we have to be back on duty?"

"Tomorrow morning."

She groaned and dropped her head on his shoulder. "And we just spent a _week_ on Risa...I really have to work on my timing," she muttered, and it was his turn to laugh.

"Well, there's nothing to be done for it now," he said warmly, lifting a hand to the cascade of her hair, feeling another rush of desire at the softness he'd only ever imagined to touch this way. "Are you still free this evening?"

"I am definitely free this evening," she assured him. "My quarters?"

"Hmm. When should I be there?"

She grinned. "How soon can you be?"

In answer he tightened his arms around her and pulled her in for a last, lingering, kiss. Eyes locked with his as they separated reluctantly, Beverly squeezed his hand before finally taking the copilot's seat and seamlessly slipping back into professional mode. "We'll be dropping out of warp in forty seconds," she reported.

He took his own chair and cleared his throat. "Very good. Checking impulse engine status...all clear."

They waited in composed silence. Thirty seconds later, they decreased speed and saw the familiar sleek contours of the _Enterprise _ahead of them. Beverly checked the flight status readouts and confirmed, "Ready to begin docking approach."

At that moment the proximity alarms began clanging, and she looked up in confusion. "What–?"

But Picard had already taken in the ship that had just appeared to port. He cursed. "Cardassians. _Cousteau _to _Enterprise_–"

"_Captain, this is Riker. This ship isn't scheduled to be here. I'm hailing them._"

Without warning the Cardassian vessel began to fire at the tiny shuttle, and Riker's voice immediately changed tone. "_What the hell?! Move to intercept—return fire!" _

"Hold on—" Picard was already throwing the shuttle into an evasive pattern even as he increased to full speed towards the _Enterprise_, but the shuttle shuddered and lurched as several bolts battered the shields.

"Shields are down to ten percent," Beverly said urgently, fingers flying over the console as she tried to compensate, but another hit shook them hard. "They're down!"

"Navigational controls failing. Riker, can you beam us out?" Picard demanded.

"_Trying...Hold fire. Salazar! We need emergency beamout, now!_"

"Let's go." Beverly nodded grimly, already out of her seat and back to the transport area a step ahead of him. They could hear the voices from the comm panel: "_There's too much interference, sir, I only have a lock on Dr. Crusher."_

"_Get her out of there, Chief._" To the lieutenant at weapons: "_Resume fire on that vessel as soon as she's out._"

Their eyes met for a timeless instant. Bracing himself against the wall as the shuttle pitched again, he reached for her arm to help steady her as well, but she was already faded from view in the transporter glow.

"_Sir?_" It was Salazar, panicked now. "_Sir, the signal's gone!_"

Picard's stomach knotted instantly.

"_What do you mean, gone? Get it back!_" Riker shouted. "_Increase power to the pattern buffer–_"

"Will, do you have her?" he demanded, not bothering to mask his horror.

"_Commander, she's gone, sir, the pattern fell apart with the interference_."

Riker swore feelingly. "_Can you lock on the captain?_" he tried.

At that instant a Cardassian soldier beamed into the shuttle. Picard fell back against the comm panel and grabbed for a phaser. "Will," he shouted, "they've boarded the shuttle–" He tried to get his arm around for a shot in defense, but he wasn't quick enough. The intruder fired, and he fell, and his last conscious thought was an anguished cry of her name.


	3. Chapter 3

She saw Jean-Luc reach out for her but the transporter claimed her first. When she felt herself standing on her own weight again, her first thought was for him. Her next was one of confusion and alarm as she took in the Cardassian soldiers surrounding her. Rough hands grabbed her arms and she struggled reflexively, panic surging, before an injector pressed to her neck brought darkness.

When she was awakened, her arms were bound behind her and she was led to a small, sterile gray chamber. The guards spun her around to face the door and she stumbled, off balance, against the wall, but the muttered curse at them died on her lips as a new Cardassian entered. The two guards gave him a wide berth and she surmised quickly that he was in charge. For a moment he studied her, and she suppressed a shudder at the hardness in his eyes. "Doctor Beverly Crusher," he said finally, with a cultured, intelligent voice. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

_Finally?_ "Who are you?" she demanded warily.

"Oh, come now," he replied. "I'm sure Picard has mentioned me in passing."

A chill raced up her spine at the realization. "Gul Madred."

He smiled, but it was not a pleasant sight. "Very good, Doctor."

"He's here, then, too." A sense of dread began to fill her and she unconsciously, fruitlessly pulled at her restraints. "You've brought us both here. Why?"

He wasn't going to answer her directly. "You've had a long history with Picard, haven't you?" he asked rhetorically. "First associations came more than twenty years ago, when your husband and he served together. Then your husband died. You didn't see Picard for a long time, but now you've been together on the _Enterprise_ for several years. I wonder, Doctor, what's happened during these last few years? I imagine the two of you have become quite close." He was standing at arm's length in front of her.

She stared straight ahead at a fixed point on his shoulder armor, mentally recoiling at the smug insinuation of his words. There was no way this monster could possibly claim to know _anything_ about her relationship with Jean-Luc—

"Did he ever tell you that I gave him a chance to go free in the middle of our interviews?"

She remained mute, but the confusion must have shown on her face.

"He didn't? I can't say I'm surprised. Allow me to tell you, then. You will recall that he had no way of knowing that you and your Klingon had escaped from our little ambush. I decided to play on that gap of knowledge. I told him he was free to go, to return to the _Enterprise_ if he wanted. The only condition was that I had you in custody and if he left, you would be the next to be interrogated. He chose to stay, Doctor."

Her eyes darted up to Madred's face in silent shock, mind coming to terms with everything that implied. He could be lying, but what would be the point? She saw with utter clarity that Madred had discovered at that time exactly what it would take to break Jean-Luc Picard: Her. She reeled at the thought. She'd seen all the physical and emotional scars left by the Cardassian, knew how devastating the torture had been. If he could have left it behind…She finally managed, "He would have done the same for any crewmember."

But it wasn't true, and she knew it. No matter how self-sacrificing he could be, for almost anyone else, he would certainly have rationalized that he could better serve them by working from the _Enterprise_ toward their rescue. For anyone else, he would never have continued to be subjected to the excruciating pain.

But for _her_...

Madred was voicing her thoughts. "I don't think so, Doctor. And that is why I have brought you here along with him. With the power to back up my intimations of harm coming to you, I believe I have found the key to my adversary."

It was all she could do to keep from shaking. "What do you want?"

"It's quite simple," he assured her. "I want him to make a confession admitting to a plot by named members of the Federation Council to invade the Cardassian Union."

"But that would mean war," she said, horrified, her voice sounding distant to her own ears.

He shrugged. "If you can persuade him, we won't need to harm you."

She snapped out of her momentary shock. "You don't _need_ to do anything," she spat angrily. "You're going to kill the negotiations, and the peace, because you want _revenge_. Because you know that in the end, he had more integrity and dignity after being beaten down and tortured for days than you ever could hope to have." Her eyes blazed with contempt. "And no matter what you do to him, that will always be true."

The gray countenance stared at her coldly. "Fortunately, my goals and Cardassia's coincide quite nicely at this junction," he informed her. "Your concern for...the negotiations," and he emphasized the word, believing she was protecting Picard first, "is not necessary."

"Why not?"

He shook his head. "Enough questions. I believe it is necessary for you to understand what will happen if you do not persuade Picard to make this confession." He stepped forward with an odd expression and ran his fingers appraisingly down the side of her face. She flinched, instinctively trying to shrink away from him and pull her hands from behind her, but the bindings held fast. Madred watched her carefully as his hand strayed lower, pausing to prod at a cut under her collarbone. "You never witnessed firsthand the effects of the device I used on Picard, did you?"

Her skin was crawling. Amidst the rage and revulsion, her mind flashed with the memories of what she'd seen—the delicate skin marred with bruising, the internal trauma from prolonged electrical shocks, the nerve damage from extensive stimulation of pain receptors. She drew breath to hurl an epithet: _Bastard_—

She felt a searing pain in her stomach, in her head, and the air instead left her lungs in a convulsive gasp. Lights exploded in her field of vision and coherent thought fled as she instinctively tried to double over, but Madred's hand shoved her shoulder back against the wall and forced her to stand. Just when she thought she would collapse at the sudden agony, he stopped what he was doing to her.

Her breath came in short gasps as she bowed her head. Madred grabbed her chin and tilted her face up, studying it impassively. "I think it will be harder on him, actually," he assessed.

_Jean-Luc_... Beverly managed to stop the moan that wanted to escape her lips, instead saying, "Let go of me."

He did so, in no hurry, to remind her it was because he chose to and not because she had ordered him.

She swallowed once, heart still pounding against her ribs. "I want to see him."

"You will, in due course. Although he cannot help you unless he makes this confession." He produced a hypo from somewhere and continued, "I'm sorry to have to do this again, but it really is necessary."

Beverly had craned her face away, but was unable to avoid him as he pushed the injector into her neck. "Jean-Luc," she said thickly, and then she passed mercifully into unconsciousness.

#-#-#-#

"You abducted me in full view of my ship, Madred, and the negotiations are scheduled to begin in three days. You will not get away with this." Jean-Luc Picard was livid. Only hours before he'd convinced himself that he could face his tormentor again, had it been in the controlled environment of his own ship, under the full protection of her security; to be here in a Cardassian cell instead, flanked by armed guards, in the same vulnerable position as before, was the stuff of nightmares. He had only felt so helpless as when taken by Madred at one other time in his life, when he had been assimilated into the Borg collective. The Cardassian had assaulted his dignity, his humanity, in some long days of torture, seeking to break him not just in body but in spirit. And he had nearly won. Picard had been shaken to the core of his soul at that, and recovery had been a long, painful process. Yet now, Madred could not possibly believe he had the upper hand. What Picard was telling him was true: the _Enterprise_ had seen Beverly killed, heard him be kidnapped, _would not_ allow it to happen. Then _why..._?

"Of course I will. Not only will I get away with it, but you will help me. You will make the confession." Madred spoke with an utter certainty that made Picard extremely uneasy.

"What makes you so sure?" he asked cautiously.

Madred smiled and turned away from him, pacing slowly, showing his complete lack of concern for any threat Picard might pose him, in every way asserting his control. "The last time we met, you and I," he began, "I found out much about you." Picard stiffened. "I found out about your family, I found out about your ship. And–" he stopped now and leaned close to Picard's ear to whisper the words, "I found out what will make you break."

He froze, remembering all too well to what Madred was alluding: that moment when he had turned around, turned to stay in the desperate hope that Madred wouldn't harm her. But she was dead. He said so, mechanically.

"Willing to bet her life?" This was said with a smile, a cold, cruel smile.

_God, no. _"What have you done to her?" Picard demanded, his voice deathly quiet.

Madred pulled back, satisfied that he'd indeed been right and pleased with the reaction. "Oh, nothing, Picard. Not yet. But I can't promise that she'll continue to be unharmed, if you refuse to make this confession."

Picard fell back a step, clenching his fists, in shock at the full implications of this. "No," he breathed hoarsely, and then looked up, eyes blazing as he felt the blood rush to his head. He had to draw Madred's focus from her, had to somehow gain control of the situation that he knew on some level was already lost. He grabbed a weapon out of his surprised guard's hand and shoved Madred back against the wall in one short, uncharacteristically violent movement. The other guard shouted at him and raised his own disruptor, but Picard ignored him and pushed the barrel into Madred's throat. "You," he said, his voice still tightly controlled, "will let me contact my ship and release both Dr. Crusher and myself."

"I will do nothing of the sort."

"Then go ahead and shoot," he challenged. It was a desperate calculation: take himself out of the equation, maybe she would be spared...

"I don't have to," Madred answered, his voice even though his eyes were focused on the disruptor Picard had pressed into his neck. He swallowed once and raised a hand so Picard could see. "I can use this." He saw the horrified recognition in the man's eyes at the control device, and knew he'd won. "I don't think you want me to hurt her because of you."

Slowly, Picard stepped back and dropped the weapon. It fell to the floor with a clatter that seemed too loud, breaking the moment of silence. He felt, distantly, the guard slam him across the face with the recovered disruptor and he stumbled backwards. The side of his face stung with the impact, but he took no notice, knowing it was nothing compared to–

Madred, composure already regained, rebuked the guard for having struck Picard, then turned again to his prisoner. "I had given orders that you not be touched, Picard. My apologies." He glanced at the device in his hand, as if suddenly recalling its presence. "As for the doctor, I'm afraid that if you don't make the confession, I will have no qualms about using this."

He wouldn't. Picard was certain of that. He tried once more to draw the focus to himself, having no illusions about his own abilities to withstand anew the torture, knowing only how much worse it would be to see her suffer. "Madred. Be reasonable. She has nothing to do with any dispute between us. Let her go."

"Make the confession." Madred paused, then continued pleasantly, "No? Very well then. Would you like to see her? I imagine that she's probably feeling quite alone at the moment."

Picard felt another surge of anger at the gibe, but cooler thoughts prevailed. No matter that Madred was taunting him, manipulating him–he had to see Beverly. He nodded once, his face ashen, thinking with increasing dread over what would be done to them…to _her_...


	4. Chapter 4

"Beverly."

The voice, quiet yet urgent, pulled her back to consciousness. She became aware of the fact that she was lying uncomfortably on a cold metal floor somewhere. _What—?_ As she started to shift her weight, a hand touched her arm. Abruptly remembering where she was, she jerked away, until she saw the worried face of the man kneeling beside her. "Jean-Luc," she breathed in relief.

He reasserted his hand at her elbow and helped pull her to her knees, and then embraced her hard. She clung to him tightly, emotion catching in her throat. After a moment he let his arms fall away and she sat back, raked her hands through her hair, and took a few deep breaths to steady her nerves. "He hasn't harmed you?" he asked anxiously, searching her face.

Beverly was unable to hide a grimace, but denied it. "No. At least, nothing beyond the standard prisoner mistreatment," she amended.

But his eyes were drawn to the cut on her chest: the confirmation of Madred's threats, the torture device that had hurt him so much two years before. He reached out and lightly ran his fingers over the scar, in an unknowing echo of Madred's actions; she swallowed hard to force herself not to shudder. "This is not 'nothing,' Doctor," he said tightly, letting his hand fall, clenched now. "Nor is it standard. I'd expected the truth from you." It was as though he were reprimanding a junior officer for a misdemeanor.

Far from being an awestruck ensign, she stared at him, not processing the fact that his anger was directed at Madred. "I didn't want to worry you," she bit off, then added a sarcastic "sir."

Annoyance flickered on his face. "Beverly, I only want to know what he's done, so I can–"

"So you can _what_?" she shot back, furious. "How exactly are you going to stop him from torturing me?"

He flinched as if struck physically, and she immediately regretted it. "Jean-Luc, I'm sorry," she apologized, reaching out a hand to his shoulder, relieved when he didn't recoil.

"No," he said quietly, his genuine exasperation with her already faded. "No. You're right, of course. There is nothing I can do." He suddenly looked very tired, and she noticed the bruises emerging on the side of his face. "You've heard what he wants?"

Beverly let out a breath. "Yes." A pause. "Jean-Luc, it's not your fault. I would never ask you to make this confession for my sake. If it could be used as a pretext for war...You _can't_." She brushed a thumb gently on his face.

"It is just a pretext," he said, reaching up to take her hand away and squeezing it. "I haven't worked out why yet, and I don't want to provide him with it. But I'm certain that even if I did make the confession, he wouldn't free us."

"Then we just hang on until Will finds us," she said hopefully, trying to see some other way out for them. "This _isn't_ Celtris III—we couldn't possibly be disavowed after such a brazen attack in Federation space."

He shook his head, unused to being so pessimistic, but feeling worse the more he thought everything through. "I don't know that the _Enterprise_ will be permitted to come after us." He hesitated, but chose not to add that they didn't know she was here at all. The situation was bad enough as it was.

"Wait—why the hell not?"

He made a gesture of frustration with his free hand. "Politics. With the Maquis situation so out of hand and the threat from the Dominion, the Cardassians can do almost anything, even this, and the Federation would have to overlook it for the sake of getting to the negotiating table." He dropped his gaze as he thumbed her hand. "I don't know what else we can do," he admitted at last. "Beverly, you know I'd do anything possible if I could."

_Anything..._ "Yes. Madred told me..." She saw him stiffen almost imperceptibly as he realized what she meant, and her heart sank. It _was_ true, after all. "Jean-Luc, why didn't you ever tell me?"

He shook his head again, pressing his lips into a thin line, and anger kept him quiet for a long moment. "I don't know. When I learned you were safe and it had been just one more lie, I couldn't…" A muscle worked in his jaw as he fell silent again. "I would do it again," he told her finally, looking up at her intently. "But he won't let me."

"I wouldn't let you, Jean-Luc," she countered, holding his gaze, feeling tears sting her eyes as she remembered the full horror of what he had suffered, understood the significance of his willingness to bear it all again for her sake. Despite her words, she couldn't help but feel terrified of experiencing the same.

His hand tightened on hers and she broke eye contact first, looking down at their hands. "It's not your fault," she repeated, quietly. "I won't blame you. You can't make a choice like this."

Abruptly his features slipped into a mask. "I shouldn't have to," he muttered. "Madred should never have done this, to either of us." He rocked back off his knees and stood up, pulling her along with him. In a lowered voice, on the assumption that the Cardassian was listening in on their words, he said, "We should see if there's any possible way out of here."

"To where?" she was going to answer, but suddenly her breath was gone, stolen by a searing pain in her chest. She gasped and pitched forward into his arms, feet twitching spasmodically in the induced seizure. She heard him saying her name over and over again in horror as she might hear in a dream, but she could focus only on trying to force air into her lungs and stop the agony. She wanted to pass into unconsciousness but couldn't, and remained aware of every shock of pain.

And then it was over, and Beverly buried her face against his shoulder, tasting sweet air in between shuddering breaths. Picard pressed his mouth into her hair and realized with bitterness that it smelled of the same pleasing fragrance as it had some hours ago, in the shuttlecraft, before—

His mind flashed with mocking images of the evening he'd once imagined they would have, and he tightened his arms around her, trying to ward off despair. He stroked her hair comfortingly until she seemed to have calmed, and finally whispered, in a devastated voice, "I'm sorry. I never wanted you to experience what I did."

She drew in a shaky breath. "I know."

"We'll have to hold out as long as we can."

But she could feel that his resolve was almost gone. "We will."

At that moment the door behind Picard opened and they drew apart, quickly, turning as one to see Madred enter. He dropped the forcefield, looked at them measuredly, then motioned to the guard behind him. "Bring the female," he ordered, turning away to exit.

Picard immediately moved in front of Beverly and started to back up. "Beverly, stay back," he said in no uncertain terms. To Madred: "Leave her out of this. You can do what you want with me, but you will leave her alone."

"Jean-Luc, you don't have to–" she tried.

"That's not the way it works this time, Picard," Madred answered, pivoting calmly to face him.

Beverly stepped back into the corner, but Picard still tried to push further, to get away from the nightmare in front of him. He had to try again, had to risk it even though he lacked every option except the one he couldn't use. "You've done enough for one day, haven't you? Let her sleep for the night."

"Enough?" Madred smiled without sympathy. "My dear captain, I'm afraid we're just getting started." He called off the guard with a gesture, then raised the controller in his hand.

"No—" she said quickly, but the word was swallowed by a scream as she jerked violently against Picard's back.

"Beverly!" He spun around to catch her as she collapsed, incapable of supporting her own weight through the pain, before the gul shut off the device. The guard reached out to pull her away from her now less protected position but Picard held on to her waist, supporting her, and moved them both a step away. "Stop this! _Enough!_" he shouted.

Beverly looked at him for an instant, knowing what he was saying, before she dropped her forehead onto his shoulder, her breath ragged. She wanted to speak, tell him she would be fine, she was strong enough, and he couldn't give in now. Somewhat to her shame she found she could not; her body was still too stunned by the successive attacks to protest. She wanted this to end, now, and so she leaned against him silently.

Picard looked up at Madred, the rage seething in him...and broke. All the consequences, all the reasons they had agreed he couldn't speak were not enough. He suddenly knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could not be the one responsible for her torture, no matter what the repercussions. "I'll do it."

Madred paused.

"I said I'll make the confession," Picard repeated, louder this time. "Whatever you want me to say. You must stop this."

The Cardassian nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I must say you have caught me by surprise. I thought it would take considerably more for you to abandon your principles. And yet, at the same time, I thought not. Hence this exercise." He smiled. "How simple—if I had captured her the first time you would have broken then as well. Interesting."

"So now you have what you want," Picard snapped, ignoring the words. "Get it over with and return us to my ship."

The superior smile again. "Ah, that was never part of the bargain," he reminded Picard. "And you will note my reference to this as an exercise."

Beverly raised her head and stared at Madred in shock; Picard's grip tightened on her waist as he came to the same realization she had. As he had feared, this would not be the end of it. A sick feeling twisted in his gut.

"I had to make sure I had found the right key to you. I have." Madred's voice revealed his utter satisfaction before it turned harsh again. "Now," he spoke to Beverly, "you can come voluntarily or be dragged from here, it really makes no difference to me."

Beverly met Jean-Luc's agonized hazel eyes and stepped away from him slowly, but her mind recoiled in base terror at the thought of more pain, of more violation, and she wavered where she stood. The guard grabbed her arm again and pulled her out of the cell.

"Damn you, Madred," Picard whispered with cold fury as the door shut. "_Why_?"

The contemptuous look his captor gave conveyed the answer already burned into his own mind: because of him. It was all because of him.

#-#-#-#

They forced him to watch. A part of him shut down completely and died as he heard her screams and futile pleas; he became physically ill at the horror more than once, and shouted himself hoarse demanding her release. He wasn't listened to. He began to suspect, as the night wore on, why it was happening, what the objective of the torture was. And he knew he couldn't stop it, would never be able to, and that hurt as much as the immediate reality of her suffering.

#-#-#-#

His head was resting in his hands when they brought her back to the cell, and he jumped up from the hard bed where he'd been sitting for about twenty minutes. His heart wrenched anew at the sight of her matted red hair and bruised face, along with the useless shift they had deigned to give her as clothing. _Dear God._ She stood immobile for a moment, clutching the garment to herself, before the forcefield snapped on behind her and the guard moved out of the room. "Beverly," he whispered, approaching her slowly.

She seemed surprised that he was there, her blue eyes taking too long to focus on a spot somewhere on his shoulder. _She's in shock_, he realized dumbly, and in terms of coping with this wretched new reality, he wasn't doing much better himself. "Are you thirsty?"

She nodded hesitantly and he grabbed the single cup of water that had been left in their cell. He brought it to her and she held out her hands, but they were shaking too badly to hold it. "Here," he murmured, bringing it carefully to her lips. Eyes averted as if she was ashamed to need the help, she drank until the cup was drained. He set it aside and came to her again, wanting to hold her, to offer any comfort he could, and touched her shoulder gently.

She jerked away from him, turning her back. "Don't touch me!"

Devastation at the rejection, at his utter impotence, threatened to overwhelm him. "There isn't anything I can do," he said, his voice hollow, pleading. "He won't let me—I can't stop this."

The rest of her body was beginning to shake now, too, and he desperately wanted to pull her into his arms, but then again that was the entire damned reason she was suffering at all—_because_ he wanted more than anything to protect her, he was to be denied. Because he loved her, she was condemned. How could he even imagine she wouldn't blame him for that? He felt numb.

"Beverly, I'm _sorry_."

She looked up at him then, red-rimmed eyes pained and exhausted, and he stopped, suddenly ashamed that he should be seeking her absolution when she was so horrified by what had happened, by what she knew he'd seen, that she was just barely managing not to collapse. Just barely managing—yet finding it within her to offer him this much: "I know," she said. She held his anguished gaze as long as she was able, then turned away again. "I know. Just leave me alone."

He swallowed around the lump in his throat and nodded to her back, a tremendous ache in his chest.

"Just leave me," she whispered again. She sank clumsily, painfully down to the floor in a corner of the small cell, arranging the shift around her as well as she could before drawing her knees to her chest and bowing her head on her arms.

He watched her trembling figure for a moment and then, quietly, tugged off his gray pullover and eased down beside her. He wouldn't touch her if she didn't want him to, but if there was _any _small comfort he could offer, he had to try. She didn't react at all as he draped the sweater over her shoulders, but she also didn't pull away; and her shivering subsided with the warmth. Her breathing soon slowed to an even rate and she slept.


	5. Chapter 5

The pain was constant. No longer mired in the shock she'd experienced after the first night, Beverly found that while the panic and terror rose every time they came to take her away, here in the cell she could manage to keep calm and detach from the pain by forcing her mind methodically through various scientific exercises. Listing all the muscles and nerves of the human body, reviewing the taxonomy of extraterrestrial viruses, designing the parameters for her next research project—anything objective and rational to take her mind off the unending pain, the persistent thirst from too little water, the fear of the next time they would come for her…

And Jean-Luc, across from her, whose eyes followed her every movement, wanting to do something for her.

Huddled in the corner, she pulled her knees closer to her chest and avoided looking at him. She was keenly aware of his presence at all times, but she hadn't spoken to him since the first night. She had no words to assuage his guilt. Still less did she have any way to cope with the love that, for all that he'd so carefully never expressed it openly, she knew, beyond any doubt, he felt for her. Love wasn't objective _or_ rational—it _hurt_. On Kesprytt they'd experienced the incredible intimacy of sharing their minds, and even though she hadn't been ready then to act on the feelings they'd uncovered, they still had only grown closer. What they were experiencing now was a grotesque mockery of that intimacy, as she was literally stripped in front of him, and it was agony. She didn't want him to see her this way, didn't want to think of what might have been, what almost was. If she even _thought_ of the warmth of his embrace, the tenderness of his lips and hands, then the burning pain that radiated from her traumatized nerves might flare all the more. Better to keep these thoughts—keep _him_—at a distance, out of mind, lest she completely fall apart.

So she needed him to stay away, and yet—something bothered her about the fact that he _was_ staying away. He knew something she didn't; she knew him better than anyone else alive and she was certain that he was keeping something from her. The only reason she could imagine he wouldn't be honest with her was to protect her somehow. But, she thought with a flash of anger, thus far he couldn't have done a worse job of protecting her if he'd _tried._ Nothing he'd done had moved Madred in the slightest, and as the _Enterprise_ hadn't come to their rescue, either, the torture would only continue. She didn't know how much more she could take, although she did know it wasn't up to her. Madred would continue to abuse her long past the breaking point and she couldn't give him anything to make it stop. Because he wasn't interested in her—only in using her to torment Jean-Luc, for what purpose he still hadn't said. The helpless anger surged again. Why did _she_ have to be his weakness? Why hadn't he just called the bastard's bluff and _left_, two years ago?

There was still the inner voice, after three long periods of the torture—hours, days, she didn't know how long it had been—that reminded her that she understood he couldn't control the situation and she'd told him she wouldn't blame him. And how many times had she wished she could have taken on his suffering at Madred's hands? The grief and guilt at seeing what had been done to him after she had made the call to leave him on Celtris III had devastated her, and she had only been with him in the aftermath, not in the moment. She knew he would take this all back on himself now in a nanosecond if he could; she knew it had to be killing him as surely as if he were the one abused—but hell, it was killing her, too. And she didn't wish this on him, but the pain was so far beyond what she felt able to bear that ending it, in any way possible, was becoming her single driving desire. She wanted to lash out at somebody, anybody, and he was the only one there.

Beverly swallowed hard, forcing her mind away from her churning emotions and back to the refuge of her memory exercises. _Psoas major. Psoas minor._

She was surprised when he spoke, his dry throat pushing out words to break their long silence. "I'm going to put an end to this. Whatever it takes, just so he releases you."

It was absurd; he had no better idea of how to do that now than in the beginning, she knew, but what was the point of saying the obvious? She was tempted to explode in recriminations...and yet something about the sound of his voice, sandpaper and soft at once, made her long for him to say more, as if his words could give an anchor to something outside the private hell of her own mind. "How did you survive this?" she whispered.

He looked at her, and she could only bear to meet his hazel eyes for an instant, but she could almost _see_ the reply: he very nearly hadn't. He considered what to say. "What are you thinking of?" he asked first, gently.

"Anatomy," she admitted, trying to stay detached, continuing the list in her mind. _Iliacus_. "Isn't that ridiculous?" There was something slightly hysterical in reciting each muscle and nerve when the peripheral neuropathy made every single one of them feel as if they were burning.

He shook his head. "It's not ridiculous. I went home," he said, very quietly. "He was trying to take away my identity so I remembered where I came from, what made me who I am—for better, or for worse. Robert, Father and Maman…"

He'd never spoken of this to her before. Her heart cracked and she blinked back hot tears. _Tensor fasciae latae._

"As long as I was alone, I felt if I could stay there, I could survive. But he knew that...and so then he threatened you. And I couldn't bear the thought. I stayed, and I knew I had to keep fighting him, but at the end...all I could think of was ending the pain." He ran a hand over his face, uncomfortable with the memory and the truth of the last confession.

To be so profoundly divided when this unendurable pain was something they _shared_—it _was_ a living hell, but the low, familiar cadence of his voice was like cool water in the fires, and suddenly she didn't know how to be apart from him any longer. She swallowed around the lump in her throat. "It hurts," she said at last, her voice breaking in spite of herself. "Everything hurts. I just want to go home. I want this to end."

He half-stood, wanting to reassure her, but with a pained look in his eyes, visibly stayed his movement. "I'll try," he promised, clasping his hands together hard to stop himself from coming to her. "I don't know what he wants, but I'll give it to him. I'd only hoped the _Enterprise_ would recover us by now..."

She blinked through tears, emotions tilting on their axis all over again as she realized: it was a lie. He never lied to her but somehow, she _knew_ it was a lie. "No, you didn't."

He frowned, uneasy. "Beverly, what—what do you mean?"

"_Damn_ it, Jean-Luc!" she burst out, pushing herself up to her knees to face him. "Don't even try! We've got nothing left—nothing—and you're _lying_ to me somehow. You know something so that you don't believe we'll ever get out of here. What is it?"

Though her voice was no more than a dry rasp it was as forceful as he'd ever heard her, and he cringed inwardly as he held her gaze, absorbed the hurt and fury in her eyes. "Beverly–"

"Maybe you think it will help me if you don't say—well, who the _hell_ are you to decide? This _is_ your fault, Jean-Luc, and you're the only one who can stop this, I know you can. So don't lie. Please just _do_ something, Jean-Luc, just make it _stop_—" Her voice gave out as a painful coughing fit overtook her, and she hunched over, pressing her hands to her face, trying far too late to stop the flood of emotion.

Over twenty-five years he could count on one hand the number of times she had ever cried in front of him, and never like this. Shattered by her words, by the sight of her breaking down, he knelt in front of her, reached for her hands. She shuddered and jerked away, turning to the wall.

Despair took hold of him, especially as he knew that she was right—it was his fault, all of it. But he _couldn't_ stop it, no matter what she thought. He only knew how it was going to end, and he wanted, _needed_, to spare her from that, to keep whatever hope there was alive, because _hope_ was in fact the one thing they did have left. He watched her body shake with quietly hitching sobs in front of him until, finally unable to stay apart from her any longer, he wrapped his arms around her, fighting her protests for a moment before she gave in and collapsed against him.

She clung to him as he helped her to the bed so she could sit with him there. He rearranged the pullover over her shoulders again and stroked her back and arms in steady, calming, tender motions; and while she'd feared his touch would burn, it only soothed. Crying freely, she clutched at the soft fabric of his black undershirt, felt the stubble on his unshaven cheeks as he kissed her forehead.

The silence of the room began to close in on them, broken only by her shuddering breaths, as time passed. He didn't say a word to her, and she thought it was better that way. So she took comfort not only from him but from the silence. Though the light level always stayed the same, providing a disconcerting sense of timelessness, her exhaustion began to tell and she felt herself drifting off. She fell into a thankfully dreamless sleep, drawing warmth from the arms that held her, feeling—if only in that moment—safe.


	6. Chapter 6

Picard had hovered between wakefulness and an uneasy sleep for several hours before Beverly stirred against him. Immediately he shifted to try to make her more comfortable, but she was already awake, lifting her head from his shoulder to regard him sleepily. His expression relaxed, and the warmth in his eyes was evident though he couldn't quite bring himself to smile. "Beverly."

She answered the unspoken question, her voice hoarse. "It's not as bad."

He nodded once and then looked away, remembering all too well the consuming nature of the pain. Her breakdown from the night before would not be repeated, he knew.

"Jean-Luc." He met her clear eyes. "How long has it been? Since we came here," she clarified.

"Perhaps three days. Why do you ask?"

"The negotiations are beginning today."

"Yes," he acknowledged reluctantly.

Beverly swallowed, still trying to clear her throat, but her gaze held him fast. "If the Federation hasn't postponed them because of us, we'll never get out of here, will we?"

She was challenging him to tell her what he knew, going about it in a more subtle way, but he still felt it would be worse to take away her hope—and his own, however faint, that maybe he was wrong after all, as he fervently wished he was. So he played ignorant, taking her words at face value, praying she wouldn't press him further. "There's a way out of everything," he said quietly, rubbing a hand over her arm. "We have only to find it."

He wasn't going to answer her. Her tone changed, sounding slightly bitter now, though she didn't move away from him. "I don't know anymore, Jean-Luc."

Somehow, the look of quiet defeat on her face finally broke him, and he relented. He would tell her the truth, no matter how harsh—

But it was too late. The door slid open to admit Gul Madred, flanked by two guards. Picard's lips drew into a grim line as he assessed the men; he suddenly had a sense they weren't coming for Beverly now—they were coming for him. And not to take her place, which he would have done in a heartbeat. Instead...

"Come with me," Madred ordered Picard, displaying the control device in his hand when Picard seemed reluctant to move.

Slowly he let his arms slide from around Beverly and stood, even as he said, "I won't leave her." She stood with him, eyes fixed on Madred.

Madred understood that Picard knew what was going to happen. "I'm afraid you have no choice. You see, though the negotiations have been postponed a day or two, you are still the chief representative, and Starfleet has been calling for your release. I am obliged to meet this demand today. You," and now Madred smiled, "will be obliged to meet mine within the next few days."

"No," Picard said firmly. "Either we both are released or only Dr. Crusher, but I will not leave her alone."

Beverly was trying without success to pick up on what wasn't being said. She looked at Picard uneasily. "Jean-Luc, what's going on?"

"Do you mean he hasn't told you?" Before Picard could answer, Madred explained smoothly, "The _Enterprise_ witnessed you lost in transport, Doctor. They believe you are dead."

Her eyes darted to Picard, silently begging him not to confirm the truth of this statement, but the answer was plain on his face. "You knew," she whispered, falling back a step, and with that realization the walls came crashing down around her. _This_ was what he had kept from her, then, the fact that crushed every hope of returning home she still had—

"Beverly–" he tried once, willing her to understand.

"There is really nothing more for you to say," Madred cut him off. "Let me spell out what will happen. You cannot back out of negotiating, Picard, if you want any chance of saving her. And you can't tell anyone that she is here and expect action to be taken, for then all I have to do is kill her." He made a gesture with his hand and the guards took hold of Picard's arms. He struggled against them but once again, the direct threat of harming Beverly stopped him.

As they propelled him out of the room he twisted desperately around to see her. "Beverly, please—!"

She was still staring in disbelief at a fixed point of space in front of her; she never even looked up at him. His last glimpse of her fixed her expression of stunned betrayal forever in his mind.


	7. Chapter 7

"It's good to have you back, sir."

"Thank you, Number One." As he stepped off the transporter platform, Picard felt numb. In the hours during his transportation back to the _Enterprise_, the Cardassians had done their best to cover up any evidence of their treatment of him during the abduction, providing him new clothes, cleaning him up, and treating him for the lack of food and water he'd been given. He had no choice but to go along with it, all the while trying to figure out how to possibly manage things on his return, so he could have any chance at all of saving her. He'd decided that he would claim to have been held in isolation, without being harmed but also without any knowledge of who had taken him or why. If he could keep his composure, then with no physical signs of torture, there should be no reason he wouldn't be cleared for duty quickly, no reason to suspect that the Cardassians would have any real leverage over him going forward.

_Leverage…_ He wondered if he'd ever be able to get the bitter taste of bile out of his mouth.

Upon arrival home he was greeted by his first officer and counselor, who both looked as though they'd had a rough time of it the past several days, although they seemed very relieved to find him in better condition than they'd apparently feared. Still, he knew what his first destination would necessarily be.

Sickbay was the last place he wanted to be; if reminders of her weren't everywhere to begin with, the grief-filled murmurs of her staff, the furtive glances cast his way, the distressed atmosphere would only serve to highlight her absence. But again, he had no choice. Picard submitted, expressionless, to examination by the ranking physician on duty, a recently-transferred, rather young woman he barely recalled who seemed somewhat nervous as she scanned him. When she finally left to analyze the results, he tersely filled Riker and Troi in on his version of events, answering their tactful questions as best as he could given the circumstances. He knew Deanna could sense that he wasn't telling her everything, but even assuming that she knew that his deception was about Beverly, whom they all were avoiding talking about...it was too readily explainable by him wanting to suppress the grief, grief that Deanna also strongly felt right now. And so with only a twinge of regret, he allowed her to believe that was all it was. He _had_ to; her evaluation of his mental fitness was essential, and no matter how much he trusted her, and Will, he _couldn't_ tell them more.

The debriefing shifted to Riker's recounting of all of the efforts that had been made in service of his recovery, along with the fallout and current status of the Cardassian negotiations. Picard looked up when Riker fell momentarily silent. "Anything else, Number One?"

"Yes, sir." Riker cleared his throat. "The admiral wants to meet with you at 1400, as soon as you've had a chance to get settled and file your report." Even in his current state, that drew a raised eyebrow from the captain, but Riker just shook his head, equally incredulous at the orders. "I know, sir."

Picard sighed. "Good Lord. No doubt she'll want her canapés, as well."

Riker smiled grimly. "I'll make sure I have some set out for you."

Returning to them with a tray of hyposprays and the results of her scans, the doctor presented her report of limited evidence of dehydration and malnutrition, then added, "There are also indications of severe physiological stress."

_No, the Cardassians couldn't cover *that* up,_ Picard thought darkly. He felt rather less than inclined to discuss any of it with an officer he'd never even _met_, though, and sat silently as he tried to figure out some way to extricate himself with as little said as possible.

"Captain, you said that you weren't—?" Deanna asked again in concern—she alone, save for Beverly, knew the extent of what he'd suffered through in his last captivity; but he shook his head: "No."

"Anxiety and the stress of being in isolation under these circumstances could certainly explain some, but not all, of this, in my view," the doctor continued tentatively, glancing back and forth among the three of them. "If there's been another particular trauma during this time that could explain this…"

Picard was stone-faced, gripping the edge of the biobed. Thankfully, with a sympathetic glance at him, Deanna stepped in with another explanation. "Grief," she suggested quietly.

"Yes." The doctor flinched, realizing the obvious she'd overlooked, and hastily entered more notes on her padd. "Captain, I can help with all of these symptoms, but I _would_ like you to remain here for awhile longer, in order to make sure we've treated everything completely and you get sufficient time to recover."

There was, of course, no chance at all of _that_ occurring. Picard cleared his throat, exchanging a mutually dubious look with Riker, and spoke firmly: "Doctor...Sheridan, your concern is appreciated, but I need you to clear and release me now." Beverly, of course, would never have been intimidated by his authoritative tone, but Sheridan backed down immediately.

"Well—yes, sir. Just one moment." She administered two hyposprays, which admittedly did bring some rapid relief of tension and aches, and before moving away, added, "But please drink some fluids and do return later if you aren't feeling well."

He nodded briskly and stood to leave, anxious to get away from this woman he didn't know, from this place that _belonged_ to Beverly...as if he could escape reminders of her anywhere onboard, as if she could ever be far from his mind at all.

"Captain…"

A sudden, strange hesitation in Riker's voice pulled him out of his thoughts and he paused, turning to meet Riker's troubled gaze, becoming aware, too, of Deanna blinking back tears now behind him.

"I wanted to say...I'm so sorry about Beverly."

Picard straightened up. There was little he could do to help anything about this entire damned situation, but one thing he _could_ do, without any reservation, was assuage his first officer's guilt. "There was nothing you could have done, Will," he said honestly, placing a hand on the taller man's shoulder. He saw Riker relax ever so slightly at the words, and he let out a breath. "It wasn't your fault."

_It's mine._

#-#-#-#

Two hours later he was back in uniform and attempting to clear the last hurdle to resuming command—to having the slightest chance to see her again...

"Admiral, this attack must, at the very least, be officially acknowledged. It was a direct violation–"

"I'm sorry, Captain Picard, but it cannot be," Alynna Nechayev cut him off curtly.

"It affects the negotiations."

"And that is the very reason why," she agreed smoothly. "We have worked for months to arrange these meetings, and nothing must be allowed to upset them. I know this attack was an illegal action, but the Cardassian government has assured us it was an isolated action of a rogue dissident, not sanctioned by them, and the perpetrator has been dealt with appropriately. We have no choice but to believe them, Captain."

Picard controlled his breathing with an effort, glaring at the petite blonde woman on the other side of his ready room desk. "Very well," he said tightly. He couldn't push the issue or she would question him further as to his motives. "What other news do you have, then?"

"Nothing significant." She swiveled his computer around, calling up a file to the screen, then turned it back to him. "This is an updated summary of the main objectives the Federation has. You'll have the evening to review them, though I know you've spent several weeks on this now." She paused, her sharp brown eyes evaluating him. "You must do this, and do it completely objectively. If you cannot, I will find someone to take your place, and I will understand." Her tone suggested she would not. "But particularly with your recent experience on Dorvan V and in the DMZ, you are, quite simply, the best we have. The long-term security of the quadrant depends on the success of these negotiations. Can you fulfill your duties?"

He could not appear hesitant; Beverly depended on him. He nodded once. "Yes, sir."

"Good. I'm reinstating you effective immediately." Nechayev sipped her tea, appraising him, and then her tone softened. "Captain, believe it or not, I do appreciate this is putting you in another difficult position, especially after this attack. Dr. Crusher's death is a loss for all of us."

He murmured an acknowledgment.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Thank you for the great feedback, especially those I can't reply to directly - it's nice to hear some people remembered this one and are along for the story again this time. Hang in there...we will take a turn for the better very soon!_

#-#-#-#

His quarters were full of ghosts. He replicated a meal for himself because he knew she would have wanted him to, but it was utterly tasteless. He could practically _see_ her gliding through the doors, relaxing in her usual spot across the table, curling up in his armchair with a coffee mug. He changed to pajamas and stared at the neatly-made-up bed he'd left two weeks earlier, before Risa, and nearly choked at the thought of sleeping comfortably there when she was cold and suffering in the cell. Eventually he drifted off and slept fitfully on the couch.

By the time he came onto the bridge for his shift the next morning, he was exhausted. It took every bit of self-control he could summon to suppress his anxiety about Beverly. He tried to channel his focus instead into going over ship's business and preparations for the negotiations, studiously ignoring the occasional concerned looks he could feel from Riker and Troi. He was about to make an escape into his ready room when his security chief, Lieutenant Guerra, reported an incoming transmission from one of the Cardassian ships around the _Enterprise_ and the _Independence_, Nechayev's flagship. "On screen," he ordered, looking up.

The caller was, perhaps unsurprisingly, Madred. "Captain Picard."

He couldn't help the tension that gripped him but, sensing Deanna's dark eyes watching his reaction, he outwardly stayed cool. The negotiations weren't scheduled to begin for several hours yet. "Gul Madred. What may I do for you?"

"I was wondering if you had any time available for us to meet briefly before things commence today." He was also calm, though Picard knew he wasn't imagining the condescending smile tugging at Madred's lips: _of course_ Picard had time.

Recognizing the name, Riker spoke up immediately from Picard's right, his distrust of the Cardassian manifest in his defensive demeanor. "The captain–"

"Can see you at your convenience, Gul," Picard cut in, with a sideways glance to stay his first officer. Riker pressed his lips together, but acquiesced.

"Excellent. If you'll transmit the correct coordinates, I will beam over presently."

Picard nodded. "Very good. _Enterprise_ out." As the screen blinked off to show the stars once more, he took a deep breath and glanced back to Riker, who was scowling.

"I don't like it, Captain."

"I don't like it either, Number One," Picard countered tensely. "But we are under clear orders to accommodate the Cardassians as much as possible."

"Still, are you sure this is wise—to meet with Gul Madred, personally?" Deanna persisted from his other side, keeping her voice low to avoid being overheard around the bridge.

Picard gave a grim shrug. "The reality is, regardless of what I would prefer, I'll have to deal with him in a few hours anyway. What harm can he do now, on the _Enterprise_?" Not entirely convinced, they nevertheless dropped their objections, and Picard collected his data padd and stood. "I'll be in my ready room when he arrives."

He had been staring without seeing at the small computer screen on his ready room desk for several minutes when the door chime sounded. It took no small effort to still his pounding heart, though his impassive face revealed nothing. "Come."

Guerra entered, followed by Gul Madred. Picard nodded to her, eyes focused on Madred. "Thank you, Lieutenant." The tall security officer kept a hand on her phaser as she left the room, and Picard knew she would be stationed directly outside the door—for all the good it would do. He was back in uniform, in command of his own ship, as personally safe as he could possibly be in this room...yet as he stared icily at the smug, gray-ridged visage of his tormentor, he felt all of his evident authority and security was a vicious sham.

The Cardassian surveyed the ready room with mild, unhurried interest before turning his attention to Picard. "I must say, you're very good at keeping control in front of your crew. I knew I respected you for a reason," he said with appreciation, as if a professor pleased with his student. "Tell me, do they know about your current predicament?"

"Is she still alive?" he said tightly, ignoring the question. He knew he was being mocked and manipulated, but he didn't have the will to fight it. Not when her life was at stake.

"Yes, I imagine that _is_ a question you would be interested to know. And the answer is yes, although how long that remains the case is up to you."

He met Madred's taunting gaze without expression. "Fine. You've come for a reason, so state it."

"Let's just take a moment to be certain you understand the situation first." Madred dropped a padd in front of Picard on the desk, having called up an image to the viewscreen. "She is offering no resistance to us now. We haven't let her have anything to eat or drink except for water. I don't believe she will last much longer. She has given up." He paused. "You can stop everything, Picard. The Cardassian Union has only one request, and we'll give her back to you."

_Jean-Luc, just make it *stop*_—

Picard's eyes were fixed on hers in the picture, and they were empty. He felt ill. "What do you want?" he asked finally, ready to agree to anything.

"Control of Minos Korva."

His head snapped up. "Minos Korva—out of the question, Madred."

"Then the next images you see will be of her death."

Picard clenched a fist on his desk and glared upward. "That sector is key to control of the Federation's general defense, as you damn well know. Even if I were to recommend it to the Council, they would reject it."

Madred was unmoved. "That sounds a great deal more your problem than mine, Captain."

And with horror, Picard realized the possibility that all of this had been a _farce_—another way simply to toy with him by dangling one last, slender thread of hope before snapping it off—because he'd been right all along, there had never been any chance Madred would let her go, and the fight had been lost the very moment they'd been taken. He could feel her slip out of reach even as he tried to hold on. But he _couldn't—_

_You can't make a choice like this, _she'd told him. _I would never ask you to_…

She _knew_.

Then that was all. He wouldn't beg; he already _had_ done, had pleaded desperately for her safety and freedom in every way possible, and it had all been ignored and now he knew it would be again. He could not deliver Minos Korva; he could not save Beverly.

There was a lump in his throat that made it extremely difficult to swallow, to breathe, but he placed his hands on his desk and rose. "We're finished here," he said, features carved from stone. "Now, I believe the negotiations are not scheduled to begin until twelve hundred hours. Security will escort you out."

Madred nodded thoughtfully and retrieved the padd from the desk. "Very well. You will hear from me later. Of course, should you change your mind in the interim, our offer will remain open for the duration." Then he leaned forward, dropping the facade of cordiality, expression twisting with undisguised malice. "But either way, Picard...this time, _I win_."

Picard's voice was acid. "Get off my ship."

When the doors had slid shut behind the Cardassian, he blanched, knees giving way beneath him as he fell backwards into his chair. What had he just done?

_I win_...

And she _lost_. She lost, and he lost—

_Everything_.

_Beverly_, he thought in anguish.

The door chime sounded again and he sat forward, quickly tried to collect himself before answering to admit Deanna Troi, her ebony eyes full of alarm. "Captain? Are you all right?"

He rubbed a hand on his forehead. "Counselor. Yes, I'm all right." When she tilted her head and looked at him steadily in reply, he straightened up, tried again. "Well. Perhaps it was unwise after all."

"What did he say to you, Captain?"

It was astonishingly easy to tell the truth _without _telling the truth, he'd already learned, and it was the best he could do right now to survive. "Exactly what we likely all imagined. He tried to use his past history with me to influence my position in these negotiations."

"It didn't work."

"No. I cannot allow him to do so. The fate of the quadrant is at stake, after all." He offered a ghost of a smile as he looked up, but the sympathy in her gaze was difficult to bear. He took a deep breath. "Counselor, I'd—be glad for your assistance to finish getting ready."

"Of course, sir," she said softly, taking a seat across the desk from him.

He nodded and rose first to get some water from the replicator. He knew what he had to do, but it seemed beyond the limits of his, of anyone's, strength. How could he possibly? Before this had all begun she'd told him he was strong.

_But I'm not_, he thought bleakly. _Not without you. You trusted me, and I failed._

Broken, there was nothing left to do but gather up the pieces of his shattered soul and move forward. He drained the glass of water and then, through sheer force of will, buried the emotions, turned his thoughts to the demands of duty; and by the time he returned to his chair he'd regained his outward composure and the mindset necessary to lead on. "Let's proceed."

#-#-#-#

There was a coolly efficient drive and intensity of a degree that few could recall seeing in Jean-Luc Picard as he deftly led over a week of diplomatic negotiations with the Cardassians. The Federation and Cardassian Union regarded the resulting treaty as a successful outcome for both sides. It would settle active conflicts remaining since the breakdown of the prior treaties between the two governments, increase cooperation with respect to defense of the Bajoran wormhole, and formalize a defensive alliance against the Dominion threat. It would also finally put to rest the major border disputes, though Maquis activity might not be stopped entirely. Recognizing the consensus view of his actions as nothing short of brilliant, especially in light of his difficult _personal_ history with the Cardassians (officially not noted for the record), Admiral Nechayev referred Picard to Starfleet Command for formal commendation, which was duly conferred in a private recognition ceremony before the treaty signing.

#-#-#-#

"Sir, one of the Cardassian aides requested this be given to you after the conclusion of the treaty signing ceremonies." Will Riker held out the Cardassian-styled data padd. His blue eyes were skeptical, but also somewhat curious.

"Thank you, Number One," Picard said softly, turning from the full-length window of his ready room to acknowledge him. "I was expecting that."

When he offered no further explanation, his first officer pursed his lips and nodded, placing the padd on Picard's desk, then cleared his throat. "Beverly's memorial service will be tomorrow. I know we haven't talked about it at all, but everything is mostly arranged. Deanna said you should be the one to give the eulogy."

He couldn't disguise the pain in his expression as he looked away. "The counselor would be better suited to that; she was her best friend. I...wouldn't be up to it, Will."

Riker's face tightened as he studied the captain. The latter might be true, he thought, but the former was not. As close as Beverly had been to Deanna, or hell, to him, he'd understood from the very beginning that her relationship with the captain was on a different level entirely. Their obvious respect, familiarity, and affection for each other was deeper even than between some married couples he knew, so he was surprised Picard wouldn't want to say anything about her. But then again, maybe that closeness was exactly the reason why—Riker knew, as horrible as he felt right now, he'd be a wreck if anything ever happened to Deanna. And then to have to simply _go on_ as Picard had done...Riker was left in astonishment that he could _still_, after everything, be the consummate diplomat with the Cardassians, always acting in service to the greater good of peace. In the end, there was nothing he could say except, "I understand, sir." Even if he could barely begin to.

"Then you'll tell the counselor." Picard sighed and looked at the screen lying on his desk. "I'll—be taking leave the rest of today, Number One. You have the bridge."

"Aye, sir." Riker nodded again, respectfully, and left...left him alone with...Picard picked up the data padd, his mouth dry, and studied it with a growing sense of dread. He couldn't face being here, in this room; so he made his way to his quarters, feet feeling heavier with every step, until he arrived and stopped inside the doors where he would be alone—

Alone.

_I win_...

He closed his eyes for a moment and finally turned on the screen. Beverly was there—she looked up slowly from where she was sitting on the floor, still in the same grey cell as before. Her eyes were dull from the constant pain, but something she saw in Madred's face must have made her realize that it was different this time. She whispered something, so low he couldn't hear it, and there was real fear in her expression as she tried to shrink away before Madred activated the torture device.

The screams were not loud enough to penetrate into the corridor from where Picard stood, but they burned in his ears as loudly as though they originated inside his own head. His stomach heaved and he fell to his knees, shaking, feeling himself shut down at the devastating reality that he had hoped, until the very last moment, would not _be_ reality. But it was, and it was his fault, his failure, and now she was _gone_.

He grabbed the padd and threw it across the room violently, trying to distance himself from her suffering, her death, even as he knew he'd never be able to.

Knew he didn't _deserve_ to.

He turned in his formal resignation from Starfleet the next day.


	9. Chapter 9

Picard took the subspace call at his desk, feeling drained from his visit with Deanna and Will Riker. They had been speaking most of the afternoon, as he answered every horrified, disbelieving question they had. He'd fully expected to have disgust and anger directed at him, as there was little reason he didn't deserve it, after all; but Will, he understood, was angry not so much with him as at the impossible situation he'd been forced into, at what had happened to both of them. And Deanna, tears streaming quietly down her face much of the time, had been more compassionate than he had any right to imagine, talking him through everything in the same patient, professional manner that she'd always taken with him. Her sympathy was difficult to countenance, as he felt regret for hurting the two of them; but he had to admit there was a certain relief—as Deanna no doubt intended for there to be—in finally saying the ugly truth aloud. Taking a break now from the long discussion, the couple had gone into the kitchen to have some time alone together and find something for Deanna to eat, while he closed up the curtains in the parlor for the evening, turned up the lights, and collected his own thoughts… He noted the unusual transmit coordinates on his computer screen but opened the channel.

"Captain Picard?"

"This is Picard, yes. If you're trying to reach Captain Riker—"

"No, sir, I did mean to call you. Dr. Julian Bashir, of Starbase Deep Space Nine. I believe we've met before."

Picard inclined his head in affirmation, vaguely remembering the younger man from his days on the _Enterprise-D_. "What may I do for you?"

"Yes, sir. Yesterday a ship arrived here at the station carrying fugitive Cardassian prisoners. Though he had some misgivings, Captain Sisko allowed them to dock for now. We've been processing them here in the infirmary as required."

Picard shifted uncomfortably. "Doctor, I have been out of Starfleet for some time. I'm afraid I can't see how this situation is something that would affect me."

Bashir regarded him with serious brown eyes for a moment before answering, "Sir, one of the prisoners...was Beverly Crusher."

_Beverly?_

The blood drained from his face. He heard Deanna inhale in surprise as she returned to the living room and felt his reaction. "You are quite certain?" he managed at last.

"Quite," the doctor affirmed, sympathetically, Picard thought through his shock. "I had believed she had died some time ago, of course, but apparently we were all wrong. The only person she wanted to contact was you, sir. If at all possible, she'd like you to come here."

"Here," he repeated. "To Deep Space Nine. I—" He shook his head, having no idea how, exactly, he was going to manage personal transportation to the edge of Federation space on a moment's notice, but the details were practically irrelevant—he would do anything, commandeer a starship if he had to, if it could bring him to Beverly. "Yes, yes of course I will. How—how is she?"

"At the moment, not well," Bashir said honestly. "But I am confident she will make a full recovery. It's good that she arrived when she did."

_Not well_—

"What happened to her?" He was gripping the edge of his seat so tightly his knuckles were white. He glanced up, briefly met Will Riker's stunned, intense gaze as the captain came up beside Deanna and they listened anxiously.

"My understanding is that she has been working as a doctor in one of the military prisons. And despite our current alliance...well, I'm sure I don't have to tell you, sir, that Cardassian prisons are not exactly ideal for one's health. Even when one is a doctor. I don't believe she was—_harmed_," he said delicately, and the tightness in Picard's chest lessened slightly as the worst fears, at least, were alleviated. "But she is severely undernourished and also suffering the long-term effects of illnesses contracted during this time. I _can_ treat everything, sir," the doctor hastened to assure him again. "But it's going to take some time."

Nodding wordlessly, Picard felt a brief flash of white-hot anger stab through him as he fully comprehended the meaning of what he was hearing. Another lie—it had been _another_ _lie_—and like a damned fool he'd been deceived by Madred _again_, and she had paid the price. How long had it been? How long had she been left alone—how could he not have _known_?

But she'd survived. She would recover.

And somehow, she wanted to see _him_—

"In the meantime, she was sensitive to the possibility that her appearance could cause some trouble diplomatically. She is adamant that she doesn't want the circumstances of her death to be dredged up and questioned, so she asked me to keep her identity quiet here on the station for now, and only contact you."

"And you're honoring her request," he said numbly. God help him—Beverly was protecting him. After everything that had happened, she was protecting _him_. Picard rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to deal with all the revelations coming at him at once.

"Yes, of course. Dr. Crusher was—is—one of the best doctors I've known, sir." Bashir almost smiled. "It's the least I can do."

He hesitated, working up his nerve, and finally asked, since the doctor hadn't offered, "Can I see her?" _Please_.

Bashir paused and frowned. "Well, I have her under sedation during treatment for now. In my professional opinion, it would be best for her recovery to wait until you arrive."

"I understand," he said, a catch in his voice. "Please tell her I'll be there as soon as possible. And Dr. Bashir...thank you."

"Not at all, sir." The young physician signed off, and the screen went dark.

Sitting back in his chair, stunned, Picard ran a hand over his bald head. He looked up to Deanna Riker and stumbled over his words. After all _she'd_ been through today… "Counselor, are you all right—do you need anything?"

"No, sir, I'm fine." Hands clasped over her belly as she leaned against Will, she laughed a little and then wiped at her eyes. "Although I had thought I had done enough crying for one day. This is wonderful news."

He must be in shock—he was at a loss to do anything other than nod once, as he sifted through the disbelief, the anger, the _joy_ at the simple fact he had never even imagined could be possible: Beverly was alive. _Beverly was alive_—but how would he see her? "I haven't tried to travel offworld since I came home," he murmured, feeling strangely helpless.

Exchanging a look with his wife, Will Riker straightened up and cleared his throat. "You know," he advised gravely, but with just a hint of good humor in his eyes, "sometimes there are certain advantages to knowing a captain of the _Enterprise_."

Picard smiled, tried to reply, found instead that he was fighting back tears. He dropped his head into his hands, staring down at the wooden desktop, finally inundated by a surge of the emotions he'd so carefully contained since the day all of this had begun, so long ago.

Watching him quietly, Deanna pushed away from Will and circled the desk to wrap her arms around his shoulders. "It's all right, sir. You couldn't have known. It's _all right_," she repeated softly, and as he nodded slowly and stood to accept her embrace he was grateful, in a way he couldn't have imagined even hours earlier, that his old friends had come to find him, after all.

After a few long moments he took a deep, steadying breath, drew himself up and looked up at his former first officer. "I should be very glad for the assistance of a captain of the _Enterprise_," he said. "Thank you, Will."

Riker's voice was firm. "We'll bring her home, Jean-Luc."


	10. Chapter 10

After the last, terrible attack, which had left her near death, Madred decided she had another, more useful purpose. She was sent to Cardassia Prime to work in a prison facility, treating political and military prisoners of various stripes. The deal was simple: work, and she would be given clothes, food, and access to medicine and medical supplies to treat herself for the crippling pain and debilitated condition she'd been left in. Refuse, and continue to be subject to the torture from the device that remained in her body as a control and a threat.

A part of her considered rejecting the Cardassian devil's bargain, considered waiting until the first moment they would leave her alone before taking her own life and ending the agony by other means. No one would ever come to look for her, she knew; they believed she was dead. Even Jean-Luc, for she was sure that was what the last attack had been: a way to convince him that Madred had made good on his final threats. And her son, somewhere on unknown planes of existence—he would have no way to know anything other than the official story, even if he ever did come home. So she was utterly and completely alone, light-years away from any connection to home, and she was broken beyond every breaking point she could have imagined.

And yet some spark of defiance still flickered in the dying embers of her spirit. She didn't _want_ to die, to give up, to give that further satisfaction to the sadist who'd taken everything else from her. Weak, exhausted, and desperate after the weeks of abuse and journey to this place...she agreed.

Alone in her cell on the first night, she fumbled with the unfamiliar medical equipment to assess her own condition and administer the treatments that would finally begin to restore the feeling in painfully numb limbs, heal the damaged nerves and spasming muscles. As the pain, at long last, began to ease, she cried in relief. Through the early weeks she continued to focus doggedly on coaxing herself back to a semblance of health, even as she adjusted to the rough new rhythms of her days, treating other prisoners who were, in some cases, even worse off than she'd been.

One night, a few weeks in, the emotions she'd been determinedly keeping buried suddenly surged, the full weight of her situation crashing in on her in the dark, and she fought against rising waves of panic, struggling to hold off a breakdown of the kind she hadn't suffered since—since the last night Jean-Luc had been with her. _No, no, no._ She didn't _want_ to think of him. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to calm her gasping breaths, but in her mind she could see his warm hazel eyes, feel his arms tightening around her, hear his whispered words, as he tried to give her the comfort of hope.

_Hope of *what*?_

She wanted to laugh in despair, at Jean-Luc and his stupid, damnable optimism. She had always been more fatalistic—_realistic_, she would say—while he never failed to maintain his implacably patient, positive outlook, no matter how dire their situation. On Rutia, on Kesprytt—

_There's a way out of every box, a solution to every puzzle_.

But this time there hadn't been, had there? This time even he had given up. And _still_, even though he had lost all hope, he had tried to keep it alive for her. She couldn't even hate him for what he'd done, what he'd kept from her, because she knew, in spite of everything, he'd done it out of love. But what good had it done? Hope had no quarter in this hell. Hope was cruel, cold. What was she even supposed to hope _for_? For the dead, for the disappeared, this was all there was, all there would be.

Another memory: an underground cave, grim defiance in the face of mortal threat:

_Beverly, it is our obligation to think of escape._

_How?_ she demanded, aware that she was arguing only with the ghosts in her mind. There was no way out of this that she could possibly imagine. _People don't just walk out of Cardassian prisons, Jean-Luc. I can't. I can't._ She hugged her knees, breathing through the panic until it finally eased, and then felt a resolve take hold of her. If she was going to stay alive, she couldn't allow herself the luxury of _feeling_ like this anymore. Feeling anything at all, but especially, _especially_ not for Jean-Luc. If she ever _hoped_ that she could see him again, she would only be lost in despair.

So she worked. She was a doctor; she was better trained than any of her Cardassian counterparts; and there was a desperate need for medical care in the prison. She always had excelled at caring for others and so, keeping her head down to avoid attracting any untoward attention from the harsh, omnipresent guards and officers, she focused simply on healing those who needed her skill. There was a surreal futility to much of it; for the prominent capital prisoners who had been subjected to tortuous interrogation, her job was to heal them only so they would be well enough to stand the Cardassian farce of a trial. Had she let her detachment slip, those cases would have been harder than her normal ones, for she knew that, despite all of her efforts, after the show trials these men and women would be summarily executed. But they knew that too, and often seemed glad simply to find a kind face and some relief before the end.

One morning she was admitted to the the cell of an older Cardassian dissident. She didn't know his name or his putative crime—the machinations of Cardassian politics were such that all she could be relatively certain of was that he was innocent of anything that would have been considered a crime under Federation law. As the man turned bloodshot eyes up from where he'd lain crumpled on the floor, likely for hours, he stared at her incredulously.

"Human..." he grunted as two guards hoisted him roughly off the ground and half-dragged him to a bed so he could be treated, before leaving them alone.

She didn't make eye contact at first, instead silently snapping open her instruments, cumbersome Cardassian models, to evaluate the man's condition: broken ribs and wrist, concussion, dislocated shoulder, internal bleeding from the beatings.

She'd seen worse.

"We still have human prisoners here," he repeated to himself in disbelief. "Maquis?"

She hadn't intended to engage with him but something in his eyes, a kindliness she hadn't encountered before, was disarming, drawing her out. "Starfleet."

"Birek Rill," he introduced himself, as if he was meeting her for coffee and not bleeding slowly to death in a high-level detention cell. Bemused, Beverly nodded at him in reply as she administered a strong painkiller first, then local anaesthetic. Rill breathed a sigh of relief as the pain eased, then coughed and winced again, eyeing her. "You know we're supposed to be allies now. The treaty. Why are you here, Starfleet?"

"They didn't give me much of a choice," she murmured. Setting out a laser scalpel, tissue regenerator, and other surgical equipment to focus on the bleeding first, she cursed again the lack of adequate supplies for what she needed. In Sickbay she would have had a team working with her to triage everything, and a sterile and state-of-the-art facility, but here she routinely had to manage the best she could on her own, in circumstances that were, to her mind, practically medieval.

"No, I imagine they didn't." He gave a pained smile, which she returned in spite of herself as she kept working. "Didn't give me one, either. You know why I'm here?"

Beverly shook her head. He was surprisingly talkative for someone who'd just been beaten half to a pulp, but then again she'd come to see all kinds of reactions to fear and trauma. Rill, she thought, seemed to be resigned to the fact that he'd likely never be leaving this place alive, and figured he had nothing to lose now by talking to her. Really, the unusual thing was how gentlemanly he was about it.

"We know the Obsidian Order is working to undermine the treaty, and the government, working secretly with the Dominion so they can seize power for themselves." There was an indignation in his voice as he explained it, to her and to whichever guards were monitoring the room. "But some of us still believe in the peace, you know—believe we're stronger with the Federation than without it. Some of us were impressed that a human who had actually been through one of these hellholes would be the one to forge the peace with us." He raised an index finger for emphasis, eyes gleaming with appreciation. "_That_, madam, is an honorable man. And that treaty has allowed us to hold off the Dominion so far and build our alliances where we _should_ be, in the Alpha Quadrant."

_Jean-Luc_. Her breath caught in her chest involuntarily as she realized who Rill was talking about, and she gripped the edge of her medical cart. So, he'd done it after all—negotiated the treaty. And it had apparently been successful, because _of course_ he would have done the best damned job anyone could have.

Even if he couldn't save her at the same time.

_What did it do to you, Jean-Luc?_ She felt, underneath the weight of the numbness, the prick of long-buried emotion, knowing what it must have cost him, because she _knew_ him, and she had seen the devastation in his eyes. He would especially have remembered how she had been so bitter at the end, and blamed himself for everything...but, she knew with sudden certainty, she didn't blame him for any of this. She knew that he had only ever cared for her, had tried desperately to protect her...even though he'd failed. Fighting against an overwhelming desire to see him again, she hastily blinked away tears and took a few deep breaths to steady herself.

"It took us too long to get here—we can't give it all up now," Rill was saying. "The Order has to be resisted." He raised his voice to the invisible monitors and tried to sit up. "You hear that? _Resisted!_" He coughed again and sank back, casting a resigned, weary smile at her. "Ah. Not by me, anymore, Starfleet."

She smiled again at Rill and touched his uninjured shoulder, finding her refuge in familiar detachment once more. "Hold still," she ordered, not unkindly. "At least we'll get you feeling better here soon."

Rill's trial would be heavily publicized, and Beverly heard the talk among other patients when the dissident was hanged two weeks later. The regret for him stung more than usual, but she told herself that at least she had allowed him not to live his last days in pain, and that was all she could have done. There would be more like him. In here, there always were.

The months passed slowly, and she could feel the increasingly heavy toll it was taking on her body and mind. Given rations barely sufficient to subsist on and a schedule of constant work, with sanitation sorely lacking and infection and disease difficult to contain, she struggled to maintain her own health, even as she treated others. Practiced discipline kept her mind from wandering too far afield from the concrete realities of her days; but occasionally, late at night, she would dream of life outside the walls, and she would remember: the cinnamon spiced aroma of her favorite tea, the sheepishly affectionate smile of her son, the sight of the stars.

And occasionally, on the worst nights, she would remember the gentle accent and warm timbre of Jean-Luc's voice, and his words: _Beverly, the important thing in any confinement is to not lose hope...there's a way out of everything..._ And she would argue with him silently, because she didn't _believe_ it.

...but she wanted to.

And then came the chance. It was late at night, and she was still working, this time with a Cardassian operative, Vodas Zelet, whom she understood had been found out as a high-level military spy within the Obsidian Order. In far worse shape than most of her patients when she was assigned to him, his evident intelligence and quiet strength had impressed her, and she'd come to make more of a connection with him as she spent the extra time needed trying to heal him. As an orderly exited his cell, Beverly, fighting her own fatigue, stepped in to monitor the slow progress of his treatment. Checking her readouts, she realized he seemed more tense than he should be, and she frowned. "Is something hurting in particular, Vodas?" she asked, wondering if she was missing something.

He shook his head, and then his black eyes met hers and he actually reached out to touch her hand for an instant. "Go along with it," he whispered.

_Go along with it?_

With the sharp clack of boots and mechanical hiss of the door, a team of four Cardassians marched abruptly into the room, two with weapons drawn, and Beverly looked up in uneasy surprise. One pointed to Zelet. "You're coming with us."

She wasn't about to argue with disruptors, but this wasn't normal, even in here, and surely they could see how poor of condition Zelet was in. "His trial isn't for four days," she said, even as she backed away from his bed, hands raised cautiously. "And he's in no shape to be transferred right now."

The lead officer gave her a contemptuous look. "Ask our gul if he cares."

Zelet narrowed his eyes, turning his head away from them. "You think I'm going to come with you? I can't even _walk_, thanks to the ministrations of your gul."

"You don't have a choice. Traitor," spat the leader, as two of his team seized Zelet's arms and wrenched him up from the bed, ignoring his cries of pain.

Beverly clenched her hands in frustration. "You're making it worse," she said, and the fourth Cardassian stepped in front of her and raised his weapon in warning. She almost didn't care, half considering raising an alarm to the actual prison guards once these men left, because for all the ugly, inhumane conditions in this place, there were supposed to be some _rules_, damn it, and dragging out a patient—_her_ patient—who'd already been brought in for treatment to torture him again was against those rules. It was such a stupid _waste_—

_Go along with it_. She glanced at Zelet, gasping in the grip of the two officers—

And then she noticed they were handling him rather more gently than Zelet's groans were indicating.

Thinking fast, Beverly shot a fierce look at the one holding his weapon on her, even as she slumped in apparent defeat. "Then at least take me with you," she argued. "Unless you want him to die before you can execute him."

The leader turned towards her again, an ironic smile twisting his lips as he studied her, and she met his cruel gaze without flinching. Finally he gave a dismissive gesture to the one in front of her to stand down. "Yes, I imagine he _will_ need a doctor when we're through with him," he hissed. Heart racing, Beverly quickly retrieved her medkit before the fourth Cardassian shoved her in front of him and they were marched out.

Her heart was in her throat as they passed through multiple manned, forcefield-secured checkpoints, and finally exited the prison. The cool, humid night air, the first feel of the outside environment she'd experienced in years, raised goosebumps on her skin. She tried to keep her breathing steady, staying alert, ignoring the occasional prod of a disruptor at her back. She thought they might be heading to a transport vehicle area, but with no knowledge of the prison grounds, she had no way of knowing—

Without warning, Zelet dropped from the grasp of the two officers holding him, hitting the ground with a—genuine—strangled cry of pain. With faster reflexes than she would have guessed herself capable of in her condition, Beverly dropped, too, ducking under the quick weapons fire of the two officers as they shot and disarmed the leader and the one behind her. One of the first two tossed a disruptor to her and she caught it, staring dumbly for an instant before scrambling to her feet. "Come on—we've got to make it to the transport zone outside the dampening field." The officers dragged the inert bodies of their comrades quickly out of sight in the darkness, then hoisted Zelet up again with his arms over their shoulders. "Keep us covered."

She nodded once, keeping pace as they covered another hundred meters as quickly as possible in silence, senses alert to any movement in the darkness around them. She heard shouts in the distance behind them and the sounds of an alarm being raised, when one of the officers hit a comm badge. "We're out, get us up now!" he said urgently, and in an instant Beverly felt the tingle of an unfamiliar transporter beam and the planet surface dissolved around her.

As they rematerialized, Beverly took in her new surroundings—a cramped, grey-green cargo hold, dimly lit and full of containers strewn haphazardly—and the tall, gray-ridged woman with tightly braided black hair in front of them.

"Nice work. Vodas—welcome back. I see you've brought us a guest."

Zelet, breathing heavily through his pain as his two compatriots supported his weight, nevertheless managed a weak grin. "Glad to be back, Alain. This is my doctor—wanted to come along. Pretty sure...I need her help right now," he added, before his head lolled forward and he lost consciousness.

The woman muttered a curse. "Prulin, Tohil, leave him here, I'll stay. Get to the control stations and get us out of here," Alain ordered, looking at Beverly as the men quickly eased Zelet down to rest on the ground and disappeared from the room. "You can help him?" she demanded, eyes narrowed.

Beverly, tense as she tried to evaluate the situation, glanced between Zelet and Alain and nodded. "Yes."

The woman nodded. "All right, go ahead. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to hand that over first?" she asked, gesturing to the disruptor Beverly still held out in front of her. She sounded oddly amused, and her demeanor was unthreatening.

With a grimace, Beverly flipped the weapon to her and knelt beside Zelet, first feeling for his pulse—weak but steady—and then opening the medkit she had still been holding in her other hand. "You don't have any other place to treat him—no better supplies?" she murmured. This was even worse, from a medical standpoint, than the prison had been.

"If we could have gotten our hands on a better ship, trust me, we would have," Alain told her, kneeling next to her and carefully watching her work. "You take what you can get, if you're looking for a cloaked one. I didn't think he'd be in quite this bad condition, though."

"Where are we going?" she asked tersely, as she scanned Zelet's prone form, searched for what she needed to at least stabilize him from shock of having his injuries aggravated during the escape. Her voice was steady, but her pulse was pounding in her ears, adrenaline still racing. Everything had just happened so quickly—she had never even set foot outside the prison walls since she'd arrived, and now she was on a cloaked ship somewhere in orbit over Cardassia….Had she been right to follow her instincts—was she really about to be _free_?

"You don't seem like Maquis," the woman said thoughtfully. "You're what—Starfleet?"

Beverly glanced up at her briefly and nodded, but didn't volunteer any further information.

"All right, I won't ask your story," Alain said with a raised eyebrow. "We're heading for the Federation border by Bajor—the station there. You know it?"

"Deep Space Nine," she murmured, pressing a hypo to Zelet's neck. _Then this really *is* happening._

"Seems the safest bet for now, although it's still risky. We need to get beyond the reach of the Order as quickly as possible—they won't have been expecting this, and Vodas was a high-profile exposure for them. They'll be angry about Prulin and Tohil, too. Didn't want to have to break their cover yet, but we were running out of time." Alain tilted her head. "I wasn't expecting to arrive at the station with a Starfleet officer, but your presence might benefit us."

"It might cause some trouble," she countered, already thinking through the implications. She'd gathered enough of the political situation over the past months to understand immediately now that if it came widely to light what the Cardassians had done to her, if someone were to use her to challenge Jean-Luc's actions during the treaty negotiations and undermine the treaty itself, the consequences could be far-reaching.

Her mind stumbled over the thought of Jean-Luc, and suddenly her throat tightened, breath stopping for an instant as she allowed herself to imagine that she might finally, finally see him again. _Jean-Luc_. _Oh my God_.

"Oh, ours might, too." Alain smiled thinly. "We'll deal with that when we arrive. Can you take care of him until we get there?"

She steadied her breathing with an effort. "Yes, I think he's stabilized for now—I'd rather move him to somewhere more comfortable, though."

"We'll handle it. You might as well make yourself comfortable, too, Doctor. Looks like you're along for the ride. We'll be there soon enough."

"Thanks," she said, and stood up slowly, leaning weakly against a stack of crates, looking around but not really seeing the debris strewn everywhere. Her mind was already light-years ahead of here.

_Jean-Luc_, she thought again, raising a suddenly trembling hand to her face, and her heart stirred with a flutter of—

_Hope._

She didn't know where he was, what he was doing, but she would find a way to reach him, somehow.

And she knew he would come.


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Sorry for the repost - part of the chapter didn't make it over from Google Docs, so I wanted to make sure it was fixed! Thanks for the continued nice feedback, and enjoy the last few chapters..._

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Descending smoothly from the docking arm, the turbolift eased to a stop, doors opening onto a bustling Promenade awash with activity. Jean-Luc Picard tried to control his anxiety. Here, effectively the sector hub of Federation/Cardassian relations, he realized that the _Enterprise_'s arrival would certainly be remarked upon, and he would likely be recognized. Riker had deftly handled all matters of official protocol for the station prior to their arrival, so that Picard was not expected to meet first with Sisko or any former colleagues, and Picard was tremendously grateful to his former first officer for the consideration. Still, it had been a very long time since he'd been in any kind of crowd, much less one where he himself might draw any attention. Following behind Bashir, Will, and Deanna, he kept his gaze resolutely forward, avoiding eye contact with the handful of curious Starfleet personnel passing by, and one particular group of three Cardassian soldiers that turned and watched them—or was it only him?—as they passed. The scrutiny was discomfiting.

_Just remember why you're here, Jean-Luc,_ he told himself.

As they finally came in sight of the infirmary, he briefly experienced a sense of déjà vu, remembering a walk along this corridor during another visit to the station years before, with Beverly, with her teasing him, trying to convince him to try some ridiculous holosuite program…

His pulse began to quicken.

They entered the infirmary and Bashir gestured them toward a door. "I assume you'd like a moment first, so I'll be out here if you need anything."

"Actually," Picard spoke up, "Will, Deanna—would you mind waiting here a moment as well?"

"Of course, sir. I was just about to offer." Deanna touched his arm and gave him an encouraging look, and he nodded his silent thanks.

Letting the door shut behind him, Picard took two steps and faltered. Beverly was there, resting on a biobed, just now looking up to see him. The auburn of her long, unstyled hair was lightened with gray, the delicate lines of her face etched more deeply, and even in the shapeless patient garb he could tell she was far too thin, still weakened...but _she was there_. And that was something he had never expected to see in his lifetime. As their eyes locked, his heart leapt into his throat and the only word he could manage to speak was her name.

Her eyes filled with tears as she eased off the bed and approached him slowly. She held his gaze for as long as she was able and then raised her arms to him almost hesitantly. He slid his arms around her, tentatively at first as though he couldn't believe she was really there, then tightly as she responded in kind. It was a desperate and relieved embrace at once.

After a long moment he pulled back just a bit, a smile on his face that contained an emotion she had never seen in him before, and she let out a nervous laugh: "You made it."

He gently brushed her hair back from her face with his fingers. "So did you. My God. Are you all right?" The question seemed absurdly inadequate, somehow, but she smiled shakily and nodded.

"Yes. Julian's been taking good care of me—I feel much better than I did a week ago." She leaned her face into his touch. "The rest of it hardly matters right now, does it? You came. You're _here_." She laughed again.

"I could scarcely believe it. I never thought I would see you again." Gazing into her clear blue eyes, beautiful and brilliant as he remembered from _before_, he was nearly overcome. "Beverly—I _missed _you."

"Oh, Jean-Luc," she breathed, and his heart felt like it would burst at hearing her say his name again, the way only she had ever said it. She leaned forward into his arms again, her cheek brushing against his as she whispered, "I missed you, too."

Her words sent a shiver through him and he closed his eyes as he held her. "Then you didn't—" His mind flashed unbidden with memories of the last time he had seen her, the utter despair, and he swallowed hard around the lump rising in his throat, his voice breaking. "You didn't despise me."

"_No_." The reply was swift and fierce as she hugged him tightly, but she could feel him trembling, and her heart ached. She'd had time, far too much of it, to think about everything, about _him_, beyond those last, awful days, while he'd had no possible way of knowing that she would ever have felt differently than she had seemed to then. "No, Jean-Luc, I _never_ did. I _don't_. Whatever happened to me, it wasn't your fault."

"But what happened—it _was_—" He shook his head, struggling to believe her, but feeling the familiar guilt subsuming him. He didn't know what to say except the one thing he'd felt so overwhelmingly since this had all begun, that he _needed_ her to know: "I'm sorry," he said, the anguished words spilling out in a rush, and he clung to her as if she were a lifeline out of a deep well. "I'm sorry for all of this, Beverly, all that you've been through—I don't even _know_. I never wanted for any of this to happen. I'm so sorry."

"I know. I _know_ you are." Beverly nodded against his shoulder, then lifted her head and looked at him seriously through watery eyes, blinking back the tears. "And I forgive you, Jean-Luc. All right? _I forgive you_." She raised her hands to brush his damp cheeks with her thumbs, gazing into his grief-stricken eyes with as much firmness as she could until she saw his tension ease ever so slightly, and he nodded once and looked away, trying to compose himself.

She dropped her hands and smoothed the shoulders of his shirt, the textured civilian attire confirming what she'd learned, what she'd probably always known, that he'd left Starfleet after all. _Because of me._ "I wish you'd been able to forgive yourself."

Picard reached up to take her hands in his, squeezing them against his chest. His voice was calmer now, quiet. "How could I, Beverly? _I left you_. All the times in the past that I've had to simply _go on_ when it seemed impossible—you know that I have done, too many times. But _this_—_you_—I couldn't. Not without you."

In a way, she wished she didn't understand, but she _did_; and she nodded sadly and tried to smile at him. She wanted to say _it's all right_, but it hadn't been for a long time, had it, and the platitude would only ring false. All she could hope was that maybe now they would be able, somehow, to find their way forward together, because... "I'm here now, Jean-Luc."

His expression softened. "And I'm _so glad_ for that."

The rising warmth in his hazel eyes made her smile, genuinely now. "So what will you do?"

He held her hands, thumbing them. "Whatever you want me to," he said. "Do you know what _you _want to do? Where you'd like to go?"

"When I leave here? No, I don't actually know. It's a strange thing to be officially deceased." The slightest hint of her familiar dry humor appeared in her voice, taking any edge off her words, and he smiled with her. "It means I'm homeless, for one thing." She paused, shrugging a bit, and admitted, "Maybe it's odd, but I haven't really let myself think of what might come next. The truth is, Jean-Luc...I only wanted to see you."

Eyes locked intently with hers, still not quite believing all of this was real, Picard hesitated for a moment. "You could come home with me," he offered finally, his voice low. Cautious. _Hopeful. _It was only a suggestion, of course, and a rather impulsive one, but the aching desire he suddenly felt for her to _accept_ it was nearly overwhelming.

She blinked. "To France?"

He nodded. "For awhile, at least, until you decide. Only if you'd like. You could stay with me."

Lulled by the touch of his hands tracing circles on hers, Beverly turned the new idea over in her mind. She didn't know the place at all, really—if she'd visited once, with Jack and Walker, it must have been half a lifetime ago—but it almost didn't matter, did it? All the time she'd been alone, whenever she dared to dream of _home_, she didn't think of her quarters on the _Enterprise_, or the cottage on Caldos, or the senior officers' apartments in San Francisco—

She thought of Jean-Luc.

Because _home_ was a warmth, a security, a steadiness, a touchstone: it was all of these things, and it wasn't a place.

It was _him. _And he was inviting her in.

It might be just that simple, she thought: with him, wherever he might be, she knew she would be _home_. "Yes," she said softly. "I—I'd like that, Jean-Luc."

Picard let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and squeezed her hands, but before he could say anything in reply, the door chime sounded. He gave her a slightly rueful glance as Julian Bashir poked his head into the room.

"Beverly?" he said carefully. "I wanted to see how you're holding up."

Beverly took a deep breath, pulling her gaze away from Jean-Luc and taking a step back. "I'm fine," she nodded, and then a wide smile lit up her face to confirm the sentiment as she looked to see her friends following the physician into the room. "Deanna—oh! You're expecting!" she beamed.

Picard stood back and watched as the two women embraced happily, if somewhat awkwardly, and Beverly accepted a bear hug from Will as well. They had just started talking when Bashir cleared his throat to attract their attention again. "Beverly, while you've been an exemplary patient," he said diplomatically, and her smile turned a bit sheepish, "the truth is that I have no good reason to keep you here any longer. You can certainly handle things from here, and I'm sure you'd like the chance to visit in a more comfortable setting than this."

"That probably would be better," Beverly admitted. "And I would be happy to get out of here. You're very kind, Julian, but I'm pretty sure I'm actually a terrible patient."

"Well, it _might_ help if you'd realize that other doctors actually _do_ know what they're doing sometimes, and let us do our job," he said lightly.

"Right." The relief she'd felt at meeting a familiar, former colleague here, someone she could _trust_, had been profound; and as her only connection to the outside world for days, Bashir had quickly become a friend as well.

Deanna tilted her head. "Then the question is, Beverly, where do you want to go?"

She met Jean-Luc's eyes, finding herself a bit hesitant, but encouraged by the quiet assurance in his gaze. "To Earth," she replied. "I'm going to stay with Jean-Luc." Saying it aloud felt right, in a way things hadn't felt in a long time, and she smiled at him as he stepped back to her side.

Picard noted a particular scrutiny in Deanna's gaze as she studied the two of them, and he resigned himself mentally to the fact that they would likely both be under her professional watch for the foreseeable future—the benefit and challenge, he reflected, of having a counselor as a close friend to both of them. Whether or not she thought it was too hasty of a decision, however, he trusted she would wisely would keep to herself; and indeed, she simply smiled. "That sounds wonderful."

"We'll be able to take both of you, but won't be able to leave right away," Riker noted. "The _Enterprise_ does have business to attend to while we're here."

"In the meantime, I'm happy to arrange quarters here on the station if you'd like," Bashir offered.

Beverly had been smiling, but at Bashir's words an unexpected flash of panic swept through her. "No," she blurted, and Picard instinctively reached out to her, alarmed at the sudden change in her demeanor. She took his hand almost without thinking, holding on to steady herself as she shook her head. "No offense intended, Julian. I just—the station—" _The station is Cardassian_, she couldn't say. Why it hadn't hit her before now, she didn't know, and she glanced down, cheeks flushing, embarrassed with herself for the irrational reaction.

"Beverly," Picard murmured, leaning towards her with concern.

"It's all right, Beverly," Riker assured her quickly, frowning. "We'll get you set up on the _Enterprise_."

"Are you sure that won't cause any trouble?" she asked, still looking down, fighting the anxiety. "How are we going to explain it?"

He shook his head. "The Cardassians should be the ones to explain it," he said tightly, letting some of his own anger seep through as he worried about his friend. "But you don't need to worry about it. We can just keep everything discreet for now, until we figure out the best way to handle everything. I promise you don't need to see anyone or do anything you don't want to. And I really _don't_ want you to worry about the politics. That's an order, Doctor," he added with kindly authority. "We—all of us—just want you to focus on recovering."

She nodded gratefully and felt Jean-Luc squeeze her hand. "Thanks, Will." She took a deep breath and glanced up, feeling the concern and care of her friends, and relaxed again as she began to truly accept that, for the first time in years...she would not be alone.


	12. Chapter 12

It was strange to be a guest aboard the ship he used to command. Though the _E_ hadn't been his nearly so long as her predecessor, still he'd known her bow to stern, known her every specification, capability and quirk. He had walked the decks with unassuming confidence and authority, as at ease in stellar cartography as on the bridge, simply because the ship _belonged_ to him, and he was her captain. Trusting in the magnificent technology and an unequaled crew, he had shouldered the burdens of command, though often heavy, because he considered it his duty and his privilege to do so. Until the moment he had left it all behind, he had only once ever even imagined he could. Why would he? He was Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the Federation flagship _Enterprise_.

Hubris and arrogance_._

Riker had set them up in the ambassadorial guest quarters, with Beverly's adjacent to the ones he'd already been occupying on the journey here, so they were more than spacious, and had a pleasant view. But they had none of the personal touches that had made the captain's quarters his own, and as for the rest of the ship, he found he was uncomfortable venturing much beyond this single room, unwilling to encounter even the small handful of crewmembers he surmised might have welcomed seeing him again. There was little he could have said, in the event. The walls he'd constructed for himself, the ones he'd lived within for so long now, that shut out the light, were as confining as anything that might have been imposed from the outside; and even with this new joy in his life, the rebirth of _hope_ in his spirit, the walls, and the darkness within them, were daunting. He still couldn't quite yet envision what the world might look like _beyond_.

He was readying for bed when the door chime sounded. He answered the door—another odd departure from old custom—to find Beverly, in pink pajamas and bare feet, wringing her hands nervously. "Can I come in?"

"Beverly. Of course." She came towards him, hesitant at first, and then straight into his arms. He held her tightly, closing his eyes at her warmth, still overwhelmed that she was here. Living, breathing, healthy, _safe_. He breathed in deeply, taking in the fragrant scent of her hair, of _her_, for so long only imagined and now tangible and _real_, and felt a rush course through his body as she sighed against him. Time, it seemed, had done nothing at all to dim the attraction they had always felt...

And yet never quite realized.

After a few moments she brushed a quick kiss on his cheek and took a few steps back, more to the distance they'd always maintained in the past, and he understood this must seem safer, somehow, for now. "Deanna left a little while ago, after dinner," she told him, clasping her hands together again—though, he was glad to see, more calmly now. The counselor had taken the lead on getting Beverly settled onboard this evening, wanting both to visit with her friend and also make sure she was adjusting after her discharge from the infirmary and...whatever had happened before, of which they still only knew the barest outlines. Wanting to respect her privacy and allow her to rest, Picard had expected that he would wait to see Beverly again until morning. He was more than happy to find that she apparently wanted otherwise.

He exhaled. "Everything went well?"

Beverly shrugged and gave him a rueful look. "_I_ think I'm fine, but I guess we both get to be regulars on her appointment calendar as long as we're here."

"Indeed." He smiled, as much at the comment as at Beverly's old, familiar distaste for anything that indicated she should be a patient of any kind. "I've been there a few times myself," he reminded her. "Some may even have been because you ordered me. It's not so bad once you get used to it."

"Great," she sighed. "My own medicine, and so forth. In any case, she would probably would tell me I need to have time to myself to rest. But," and she looked down again, squeezing her hands together, "I didn't really want to be alone." She hesitated, but didn't admit the other reason she'd left her room, namely a sudden, urgent need to prove to herself that she _could_ leave her room, that she wasn't confined any longer. She was trying to be _fine_, after all, and another moment of irrational panic in one day would hardly help her case. She felt safer here, anyway, and Jean-Luc had always been remarkably gifted at putting her at ease.

"You don't have to be, Beverly," he assured her quietly. "You _aren't_." As she hadn't moved back towards him, he took his cue from her and stayed where he was, but he hoped his _words_ were reassuring—because despite his original intentions for the evening, he didn't really want to be apart from her, either.

She met his gaze and gave a tiny smile. "Thanks." She turned and started walking slowly around the room, studying the impersonal, nondescript furnishings, touching a floral arrangement on the desk. "It's strange, isn't it?" she mused.

He smiled faintly at hearing his own earlier thought echoed back to him, and nodded his understanding as he leaned back against the dining table, folding his arms. "Quite. I'm not accustomed to it yet. It's rather like staying in a hotel in one's hometown, isn't it?"

"Yes, exactly," she agreed, brushing her hand against a sofa cushion. "While someone else lives in my old house, so I know where it is but I can't go inside there. At least you're next door, or I'd forget and try to go to your old quarters, too."

A shadow passed over his features, but he swiftly banished it. "Well, I'm glad you found me here."

"Me too." Beverly glanced down, picking absently at the soft, satin sleeve of one arm. "You know, one thing I was surprised is the same—would you believe, it turns out the computer still has some of my clothing patterns stored. I had to take the sizes down some, but I picked out and put away a few things next door. It's nice to be back in something this comfortable." She flushed a bit. "Though maybe I shouldn't have come over in pajamas."

"If you hadn't, you'd make me self-conscious to be in mine," he pointed out reasonably. "I assumed you were merely being considerate." To his relief, she relaxed again and laughed. Not wanting to keep the conversation on sleep clothing any longer, though, even if entirely modest, he cleared his throat and straightened up. "In any event, perhaps the computer has some other things on file, as well. Would you care for some tea?" he offered.

"Yes, that sounds perfect." She moved to settle down on the couch, tucking one leg underneath her, as he went to the replicator.

"Two?" he asked her, checking her preference, and she nodded. "Tea, Crusher herbal blend two, hot; and tea, Earl Grey, hot."

Beverly blinked away sudden tears as the replicator hummed, and ducked her head in frustration at herself. Of all things—if she was going to cry at hearing him _order tea_, she was worse off than she thought. She inhaled the cinnamon aroma of her tea as he handed it to her, and that nearly set her off, too.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly, settling next to her, eyebrows knit with concern.

She smiled tightly and nodded. "Just... getting used to things." He eased an arm around her shoulders, and she sighed, leaning against him, trying to keep herself grounded by his presence.

There were questions, so many of them, to ask and to answer, but the silence was easier and comfortable, and they let it stretch for a long moment. "Do you know, Beverly," he said after awhile, rubbing a hand on her arm, "even though these aren't really my quarters, as you said, it still does feel perfectly natural for you to be here. You make it feel more like home. You always did."

Her stomach flip-flopped as she looked over at him, surprised at the mirror of the sentiment she felt; and the quiet smile that spread over her face was, to him, like sunshine on a summer day. She took a sip of tea to cover her blush. "Would you tell me about your home now? In La Barre?"

"You've been there?" he asked first, recalling from the haze of memory.

"Only once, I think, a long time ago, before the _Stargazer_. I don't really remember."

That was the last time he could recall her hair having been so long, he thought absently, as he studied her profile; he liked it this way, the way it fell over her shoulders. "Hmm. Well, perhaps most importantly for your, and my, culinary needs, despite my family's old preferences, I _did_ have a replicator installed when I moved in."

She smiled. "That certainly helps. You wouldn't want me cooking."

"Nor you, me," he assured her ruefully, sipping from his mug again. "What else do you want to know?"

"Tell me anything, Jean-Luc," she said softly. "I just want to hear your voice."

Bemused, he thought for a moment before beginning to speak. Thoughtfully, carefully, then with more confidence, he told her: of the sun-dappled road leading in from the village, the tangled rows of vines stretching out towards the Alpine hills on the horizon, the crisp cool air of autumn mornings around harvest, the sweet scent of the grapes, the weathered oak barrels around the house and in the courtyard, the stillness of the house in the late afternoon and the warmth of the fireplace on winter evenings.

His voice was absolute contentment, and she felt all her tension lessen by degrees as he spoke to her. _Jean-Luc Picard, master storyteller_, she mused idly, wondering if he had any idea how comforting he could be. Eventually she finished her tea and, though fighting to stay awake now, shifted to look at him when he paused. "You're tired," he said gently.

"Maybe a little," she admitted.

"Do you feel better?"

"Mmhmm." She tilted her head, blue eyes sleepy but perceptive. "Do you?"

"Assuredly," he said with a warm smile. "Here." Rising from the sofa, he took her hand to help her up. "You can stay in my room if you'd like—I'll stay out here."

Fighting against the gravity of sleep pulling her back down, she found her balance, then swallowed, heart beginning to pound as their eyes met. His fingers tightened around hers, and now the pull of attraction was towards him, and she swayed a bit, and then she kissed him. He smelled of sandalwood and bergamot and his lips were soft, and she felt herself absolutely melting against him as his arms enveloped her and he deepened the kiss. Without the eagerness and electricity of the last kiss they had shared, _before_, this was full of tenderness and longing, hope and promise.

After a long moment she pulled back and met his hazel eyes, serious, intense, desirous. "Stay with me?" she murmured, and he nodded and moved with her to lie on the bed. She touched his lips again and then shifted, molding herself to him, trusting him to understand what she needed right now.

The room was quiet, his breathing beside her ear the only sound. She closed her eyes and floated with the sensations of the soft bed and pillow, the firmness of his body pressing against hers, the weight of his arm around her waist. Feeling a security she hadn't in years, she exhaled quietly, and slept.


	13. Chapter 13

As he finished setting out small plates and utensils on the dining table, the view outside the windows caught his attention again. The spindly, claw-like arms of the station below lent a vaguely menacing air to an otherwise placid starfield. It wasn't entirely rational, of course, to be disturbed by mere architecture. The station had been under Bajoran control and Starfleet administration for years now—he had even been present for the initial handover—and there should be nothing distressing about it. Still, the Cardassian aesthetic was something he supposed he would never accustom himself to, and he would be glad to leave this place as soon as they were able.

Not that he could be certain it would help. Lying awake in the darkness during the night, with Beverly peacefully asleep in his arms, Picard knew he should have felt only contentment, but instead he'd struggled to feel anything other than anger. At what she'd had stolen from her, at what had been done to her—

At the enormity of his failure to have prevented any of it.

Eventually he'd drifted back off, and with the morning his mind did thankfully seem to have quieted, allowing him to appreciate the new, intimate experience of waking to feel Beverly Crusher draped against him. _I don't think you've ever said good morning to me quite like this_, she'd said, as he brushed his fingers through her hair and his lips traced a slow path along her cheek, her jawline, her neck. _Oh, but I've imagined it_, he'd admitted, and the answering look in her eyes had roused him to other, rather more passionate kisses.

After awhile she had slipped back to her own room so they could each shower and change for the day before breakfast; and as she returned now, dressed in tan pants and a flattering, navy blue sweater, she seemed clearly relaxed and at ease. He paused in the middle of serving, watching as she wound her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck with practiced efficiency.

She raised a quizzical eyebrow at him when she noticed him watching her. "What?"

He cleared his throat and resumed pouring their coffee. "You never used to wear your hair back like that."

Beverly wasn't sure whether he meant this as a good thing or not, but she was amused he was paying attention. "Or have it this gray?"

He gave her a wry look. "There's nothing wrong with gray, Doctor."

"Fair enough." She smiled, happy, too, at his familiar, affectionate use of her title—no one else ever made it sound quite so much like a private term of endearment as he did. "But I am definitely planning a visit to the ship's salon as soon as it's feasible." She picked up her coffee mug, but finding it still too hot to sip from, set it down again. "Thank you for breakfast, Jean-Luc."

"It's my pleasure," he said warmly, as he sat down across the corner from her and pulled a croissant from the serving platter. "I've missed it."

"So have I." Beverly broke off a piece of croissant and used her knife to spread some jam, still smiling—

And felt herself suddenly starting to fall apart again. The rich, buttery aroma, together with the sight of Jean-Luc across from her, the way it had always been in the past, caused a lump to rise in her throat. She blinked hard and tried to focus on eating normally, to enjoy the flaky pastry and sweet strawberry, but her emotions were swirling all out of proportion to the normalcy of her actions, and it was difficult to swallow.

"Beverly?" he asked quietly, noticing she had stilled her movements and closed her eyes.

How was she supposed to navigate this new life if it was full of cloaked mines set to detonate without warning? She wiped angrily at the tears escaping down her cheeks, taking deep breaths, and then silently forced herself to continue eating, one deliberate bite at a time. She glanced up and met Jean-Luc's concerned, patient eyes for the briefest instant before looking away again, tears still falling despite her best efforts to contain them.

She began to speak, barely audible, in the calm, detached tone she would adopt when describing a clinical case. "Our, um—the rations," she explained, "were a type of oatmeal for breakfast, soup and bread for dinner, and zabu meat stew twice a week. I don't think there was any shortage of resources—it was just an intentional part of the deprivation."

Picard set down his coffee mug slowly, a strange, hollow feeling settling in him as he looked at her, her too-thin figure sitting perfectly still, head bowed.

"You get used to it, of course, but at the same time, you don't. Not really. So it's been, what, ten days, more or less, that I've been working on getting my appetite back, and the food on the station was really very good. But I—I waited to have any croissants. Because I wanted to have them with you, when you came." Her smile was humorless. "So here I am, eating breakfast with you, and I should be happy, and I can't stop crying. It's absurd."

She took a sip of water, controlling the trembling of her hand as she set the glass down, but he noticed, and his heart ached. He took her hand and pulled her up from her chair, folding her into his arms; and she accepted it for a moment, but didn't relax. She placed her hands on his chest, fiddling with the neckline of his shirt as she kept her eyes downcast. "Do you know, Jean-Luc," she continued, still with uncanny calm, "except for the very beginning, I didn't cry. I did what I had to do, and I just _did it_, and I didn't cry. And now I make it home, and I'm a mess over every _stupid_, little thing."

"Beverly, you're _not_—" he said, tightening his grip on her waist, but she shook her head, and he stopped. "How do we do this?" she whispered.

"What?"

"This—how do we…" She trailed off, stared down at her hands. "This is the _Enterprise_, Jean-Luc. We're back where we started, and we used to _belong_ here, and now...everything's different. How do we do this?"

He couldn't admit that part of him felt as bereft as she did, that her words were breaking him all over again. He willed himself instead to find a way to impart some confidence, some hopefulness, because he couldn't bear to see her look so _lost_. "It's going to take some time," he said finally, rubbing his hands along her upper arms in a reassuring motion. "It's all right for everything to feel strange at first. That's what you told me, isn't it, after Celtris III? It just took time. Beverly, it won't always be this hard." He tried to catch her gaze, and his hazel eyes were kind, encouraging. "And perhaps it won't seem quite so difficult, too, when we aren't on the ship, being reminded all the time of what has changed."

She nodded, sniffling, slowly regaining her composure as she drew welcome strength from him. But something in his last words gave her pause, and she had to know. "Can I ask you something?" she said, brushing at her eyes again to dry them.

"Yes, of course."

"Why _are_ we on the _Enterprise_?"

He paused. "What do you mean?"

"When I found out—Julian said that you had retired to your home and he'd spoken to you there. You could have come on any transport, I thought, but he said you would be coming here on the _Enterprise_."

The strange feeling returned and he took a step back, letting his arms fall. "It was, ah—simply good fortune. The ship happened to be on a visit to Earth when the doctor called." He hesitated, added more: "Actually, Will and Deanna had come to visit me. They were at the house. I...hadn't really spoken to them in some time."

_Or anyone_, she guessed, studying him as he now found it difficult to meet her eyes in turn. "Did they know why?" He shook his head, once, and the full realization dawned. "You never told _anyone_ what happened."

He was quiet. "I couldn't," he said at last, running a hand over his head. "They all believed you had died in the accident. If anyone knew I had been...compromised in the negotiations, it all might have unravelled. It was my shame to live with, at any rate. No one else could have done anything about it, then or afterwards. It seemed better they not know."

He'd lived alone with this for _two years._ Beverly squeezed her hands together to cover the horror she felt. "Jean-Luc…"

"Perhaps I should have told them sooner. But your 'death' was terrible enough. I thought it would only have hurt them more to know what really happened. Or what I believed had happened." He glanced at her with a bleak smile, trying to stave off the self-reproach, and failing.

Afraid she might start to cry again, she closed the distance between them this time and embraced him, and he slowly slid his arms back around her. "Jean-Luc, I'm so sorry—that you had to be alone." She rested her chin on his shoulder, closed her eyes.

"It's all right," he murmured, remonstrating himself silently for causing her to worry about _him_, as if any difficulty he'd encountered could have compared in any respect to the ordeal she'd been through.

"I want to believe you," she told him. "That it will get better."

"It will." He pulled back to look at her, earnest and assured once more. "Just give it time, Beverly. It will."

But she didn't know if she _did _believe it, and as she gazed at Jean-Luc, she realized she didn't know if he truly did either. A stray memory floated to mind, from Kesprytt: she, incredulous and amused, Jean-Luc, a bit abashed, as she'd called him to account for acting with certainty about something he didn't really know at all—_there are times_, he'd conceded, _when it is necessary for a captain to give the *appearance* of confidence._ Well, no matter what he really felt now, she knew he was _trying_, for her sake; and in the end, that fact was as reassuring as anything he could say.

"Okay." She took a deep breath and smiled at him. "I'll try. Jean-Luc...do you, um—think we could try again, on breakfast?" she asked hesitantly. "Would you believe, I actually do feel hungry now."

He smiled back, genuinely this time, and kissed her. "I think that sounds like a marvelous idea."

This time around the meal proceeded in much more leisurely and—to Beverly's immense relief—much less emotionally fraught fashion. Breakfast was _supposed_ to be simple, after all, or at least it was to their taste; and the return to this simple, ordinary ritual that had been a part of her daily routine for so many years with Jean-Luc brought a quiet, elemental joy, lightening her spirit, as they talked.

The conversation turned to Will and Deanna, as Beverly was curious to know how things had finally changed between them. "I don't know for certain, of course," Picard said. "It was shortly after I had left. I did attend the wedding, though—the first ceremony, that is, in Alaska. It was lovely." Of course he hadn't engaged much there, but nevertheless, had still felt the happiness for his friends.

"They deserve it. With as complicated a history as they had…" Beverly mused. She took another sip of coffee. "It must have been a fun time."

"Hmm. I did note that Worf and Geordi had a bit too much of the non-synthehol. One really must acquire a tolerance before trying Romulan ale."

She laughed. "Please remind me of that before I start becoming acquainted with Château Picard on a more regular basis." He raised an amused eyebrow and nodded, and then another thought occurred to her. "I can only imagine Lwaxana's reaction to her daughter finally getting married."

"Well, that part I wasn't present for—they had a second ceremony on Betazed. And I can't say I am sorry to have missed it," he added honestly, and she grinned.

"She wouldn't stop pursuing you for _years_, Jean-Luc."

He colored slightly. "Oh, I recall. Vividly. You weren't even present for the worst of it. In the event, you'll have to ask Deanna for more of the details." The door chimed then, and Picard rose to answer it, placing his napkin on the table. "Ah—speaking of."

"Good morning, sir," Deanna Riker said cheerfully, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "Beverly, I thought I might find you here. Is everything going all right today?"

Picard deferred to Beverly, who nodded as she stood up from her seat. "Yes, we were just finishing breakfast."

The empath glanced between the two of them, undoubtedly sensing there was more to the answer, but didn't inquire further. "Well, good. I have some plans for us today—not too much, don't worry—but I also brought you something."

"What?" Beverly looked puzzled, and then a rueful smile spread across her face as she saw what Deanna was holding out. "A medical tricorder?"

Deanna's eyes twinkled as she handed it over. "You couldn't stop asking questions last night. I figured you wanted to see for yourself. So feel free to scan me and the baby as much as you want."

Beverly caught Jean-Luc's understated amusement, and she gave him a sheepish look. She thought about protesting her innocence, but was far too pleased to have the familiar instrument back in her hands. "All right, I did want to," she admitted. "Thanks."

"And maybe you can tell me why I keep having these awful twinges every time I stand up."

The doctor frowned automatically. "Well, you are getting close. Can you describe them more—how long they last and the sensation?"

Deanna shook her head, chuckling, and held out a hand to usher her out. "Yes, I'll tell you more, in a minute—come on, I'm going to steal you away for awhile."

"All right, I'll come along." Beverly relaxed and smiled again at her friend.

"Will and I were hoping to join you both for dinner tonight too, if that works for you? We aren't going to have much quiet time in the near future, after all," Deanna said, one hand resting on her belly.

Involuntarily, Picard tensed inwardly at the invitation, but he exchanged a quick glance with Beverly, and nodded when he saw she agreed. "Of course."

"Perfect. We'll set up next door," Deanna said, so smoothly that someone else might not even have noticed how deftly she'd sidestepped the potential difficulty of having dinner in his old—now _their_, her and Will's—quarters. Well, she always _had_ exhibited excellent diplomatic skill in her own right, he thought. "In the meantime, we'll be back later, sir."

"Counselor," he began, but she waved him off.

"Yes, yes, don't call you 'sir' anymore. Understood. We'll see you later, Jean-Luc." The doors swished closed behind the two women, leaving the room devoid of the cheerful energy it had contained mere moments earlier; and with a sigh, Picard turned back to the table to clear it. While he truly had enjoyed the meal—the second attempt, at least—he found himself shaken by what had happened before, and the underlying disquiet lingered.

_It won't always be this hard_, he'd said to her.

Would that he could believe it himself.

#-#-#-#

A few nights later she found him sitting in the darkness, one arm resting on the back of the sofa as he stared out at the starbase below. "Hey there," she said softly.

He looked up and gave a half-smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I thought you were asleep."

"Well, it's only been a few days, but I've already decided it's nicer when you're with me there," she said lightly, easing down beside him and planting a kiss on his cheek. He took her hands in his, holding them on her lap, but didn't otherwise respond, and she looked at him more closely. "Jean-Luc, what's wrong?"

He squeezed her hands but didn't meet her eyes, and stayed silent for a few moments before answering, with evident reluctance. "I was just thinking," he said carefully, "that I'm not certain anymore that it is the best thing for you to come back to La Barre with me. Perhaps it makes more sense for you to stay here on the ship."

The color drained from her face, but she forced herself to remain calm. "Why?"

He pressed his lips together, face drawn. "Beverly, you've had years taken away from you, and I can't presume to know what you want to do with your life going forward. I don't have much to offer you; there's not much for you in a small village in France. But you could go back to Starfleet—here, on the _Enterprise_, even—find your place again."

"What, just put my uniform on and walk back into Sickbay? As if someone else doesn't have my job already and nothing ever happened?" She shook her head, incredulous. "Sure, maybe, I could do that. What if I don't _want_ to be on the _Enterprise_, without you?"

"You'd have your friends, your work—have your life back."

"But not you."

A muscle worked in his jaw. "No, not me. And that would be for the better."

Beverly stared at him, his face bathed in shadows, as she struggled to contain the bewilderment. "Jean-Luc, why are you trying to push me away? You don't really feel that way."

He pulled his hands away from her and stood abruptly, turning from her. She didn't _understand_—every time he tried to _forget_, to focus on the here and now, it was all still there in his mind, in the nightmares that had come back to life along with her presence—

The helpless rage, the ugly images, the screams.

The mocking taunts, the monstrous lies, the abject despair.

And together with everything—

The _guilt_.

Dear God, the _guilt_, that he couldn't escape from, that swallowed him every time he thought of what had happened, what he should have been able to save her from, what he'd abandoned her to.

She said she'd forgiven him, but he couldn't fathom how she could have, still less how he could ever possibly forgive _himself_, when the only thing he knew for certain was that he didn't _deserve_ that kind of mercy.

He paced the room, running a hand over his face, and when he finally spoke, his voice was hollow. "How I _feel?_ All this time—everything you've suffered—was because of how I _felt_ about you, Beverly. I couldn't allow that to happen again. If I had only—"

"Only what?" she stopped him. "What could you have done, Jean-Luc?"

"Nothing at all," he said bitterly. "I've been over it a million times and I couldn't have done anything."

"That's just it—you couldn't have. I _know_ you couldn't have. It was a Kobayashi Maru, Jean-Luc. And you know what? _I beat it._" Beverly smiled grimly, leaning forward on the sofa. "Me and James T. Kirk—put that in the history books. I'm _here_ now. That monster _didn't win_."

Picard flinched at the words, a rebuke to the taunt he had heard for so long in his mind, and he gripped the back of the chair he was standing behind. "But he would never have harmed you if it weren't for me. Beverly, it's the _only_ reason he did. I'm only trying to protect you. Can't you see that?"

She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling anger rise. "You're trying to protect yourself."

"That's unfair," he replied, finally looking at her, stung.

"Is it? What about what _I_ want for us, Jean-Luc? You don't want to be hurt—fine, but it's too late for that, for both of us, isn't it? But we're together now, and we _fit_, you and I, the way we are, even after all of this. I thought we could _stay _together, now that we have this chance, but you didn't even ask before deciding this, did you?"

He turned away again, shoulders sagging, miserable. "Why would you _want_ to stay with me? Beverly, I _condemned_ you."

And suddenly she understood: all of this time the Cardassians had held her captive, her _mind_ had been her own. But Jean-Luc had been no less a prisoner—without the comfort of even the smallest hope, with guilt that bound him no less tightly than chains—and he still wasn't free. She had to make him _see_—

She pushed up from the sofa and crossed to stand in front of him, forcing him to look her in the eye, and her voice was fierce: "You _saved_ me, Jean-Luc."

Picard stopped short, face going pale in the dim light. "I didn't—I couldn't save you. I couldn't protect you, Beverly. _I watched you die._ What are you talking about?"

Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn't waver. "You and your damned optimism, Jean-Luc. I wanted to give up, so many times. And every time it got too desperate, _you were there_. All of your words about thinking positive, not giving up hope, never giving up. I could _hear_ you, in my mind, and you _did_ give me hope."

He stared at her, stunned. How that could even _be_—

"I was there because of him. I'm here because of _you_." She reached out, took his hand, squeezed it hard; and her voice finally broke. "I love you, Jean-Luc."

A choked breath escaped him as he held her gaze. "But I…" He shook his head, disbelieving the words he had only ever imagined to hear, struggling to imagine now that he could possibly deserve them, when she _deserved_ so much more than this brokenness he had to offer. "Beverly, _you_ were the strong one," he murmured. "I didn't...I'm not even a captain anymore..."

"Do you really believe that matters to me?" she said, in gentle rebuke, reaching up her free hand to caress the side of his face. "I knew you before you were a captain, Jean-Luc. I love you because of the man you are, not for your rank or station. If you want to grow grapes, I'll grow grapes too, if you're there. I mean, I'd be terrible at it, but you could at least set me up as the village doctor, right?" She smiled shakily. "I just don't want to be apart from you—now that I've found you I don't think I'd know _how_."

With another shuddering breath he pulled her into his arms, clinging to her tightly. "I do love you, Beverly," he confessed, his voice rough with emotion. "I always have."

She turned her face towards his, finding his lips, losing herself in his desperate embrace, letting her answer be so much fuller and more complete than words alone could possibly be.

And she felt—_home_. And she thought that he might finally, finally—begin to feel set free.


	14. Chapter 14

"Are you ready?"

"I think so." Beverly took a deep breath. "Definitely ready to move on from here, too."

"As am I. We'll be leaving immediately afterwards. But you're not nervous?" Picard asked again, noting her fingering the sleeves of her jacket unconsciously.

"Jean-Luc, really, I'm fine." She followed his gaze downward, then grimaced and flexed her hands to still them. "Honestly, the oddest thing is just dressing formally without being in uniform. That made it easy for thirty years, didn't it?"

_Or forty_. He smiled ruefully in agreement. Although he could recall quite a few other instances when she'd dressed in rather stunning fashion for admirals' balls or other formal occasions—not that he had been able to indulge in openly appreciating it at the time, even being her customary date to such affairs—he knew what she meant in this case. There was no wistfulness to her tone, though, merely a statement of fact; and as he took in her choice of attire—perfectly fitting dark pants with a light gray, collarless jacket open over a shell top of the same hue—he thought it suited her very well today. Especially given that, in striking contrast to the muted tones, her hair, following a discreet visit to the salon with Deanna the day before, was once again a vibrant auburn, styled with long layers around her face. "Well, if I may say, you look wonderful."

The quiet appreciation in his tone made her cheeks warm. She ran her fingers through her hair to set it, and returned his smile. "Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself. Okay—let's go."

With Jean-Luc's hand a reassuring pressure at the small of her back, they used the dedicated turbolift to bypass the bridge and arrive on time at the _Enterprise_'s main conference room, standing alongside the windows while they waited. It was another familiar space in which they no longer belonged; Beverly felt a slight pang at seeing Jean-Luc consciously stand away from the head of the table. Over the years she'd of course seen others, including Will, in command of the ship, naturally seated in that spot—but never with Jean-Luc present at the same time. But Will had asked them here prior to departing the station, and Jean-Luc, thankfully, didn't seem as uncomfortable as she thought he might have been in prior days.

The doors at the far end opened to admit four uniformed Cardassian officers, three men and a woman, escorted by Will Riker. Beverly drew herself up, exchanging a guarded look with Jean-Luc, as they turned to face the group. She understood there had been a fair amount of diplomatic wrangling behind the scenes since she'd arrived at the station with them, and as her story, and theirs, had become known—theirs quite publicly, hers much less so—apparently there had been some resolutions.

Riker gave a warm smile to Beverly as their eyes met, and then nodded at Picard. Almost immediately, he noted a marked difference in Picard's bearing. Two weeks prior, the man he'd met at home in France had been distressingly withdrawn and depressed, which demeanor had largely persisted—at least in Riker's presence—even through to these past few days on the ship since Beverly's return. He understood, as Deanna had reminded him, how difficult it had to have been for his mentor, after harboring his painful secret for so long, to finally admit it to them, and then have to come to terms with what had happened in the years since—not to mention be back aboard this ship, _his_ old ship. But understanding hadn't made it any easier to witness. Now, however, even in civilian attire, Picard stood straighter, with a sharpness to his gaze and more of the quiet confidence and natural authority he'd always exuded. In short, he seemed more _himself_; and while Riker didn't know exactly what had happened, he found himself greatly relieved by the change, and hoped that it meant his friend was beginning to finally heal.

Part of his own contribution to that effect had been his attempt, which had been realized today, to work through back channels to retroactively change the character of Picard's official recorded separation from Starfleet from resignation to retirement, so that Picard would have the official benefits of that designation and have his decades of service be recognized, as they should. Though Picard had initially greeted the idea with evident discomfort, earlier today he had indicated he would be amenable. Riker, again, was relieved. He might be an established captain himself, but things simply didn't seem right with the universe if Jean-Luc Picard wasn't _captain_ as well. Even if retired.

Riker cleared his throat and introduced the leader of the delegation he'd escorted, her own authority quite clear in her confident stride and keen gaze.

"Gul Korill Alain, may I introduce retired Captain Jean-Luc Picard and Doctor Beverly Crusher."

"Doctor Crusher," the woman said first, reaching out to shake her hand, which Beverly accepted. "I am pleased to see you are well, and home with your people."

"Thank you, Gul Alain." Beverly's voice was professional but gracious. "I wouldn't be here without your help."

"Inadvertent, to be sure," she allowed, with a dry look. "But it seems to have worked out for all of us." She turned glittering dark eyes to Beverly's left. "Captain Picard, I am also honored to meet you. Without your efforts, Cardassia—and the Federation—might well be in the hands of the Dominion by now."

"I suspect you are far too generous in that assessment," Picard said formally. "But I thank you—and most especially for bringing Doctor Crusher back to us. She has been missed."

The tallest Cardassian stepped forward, appreciative dark eyes focused on Beverly. "I did not expect to encounter any friendly face after my own detention, and certainly not a human's. Beverly, I know that you were not exactly given a choice in the matter, but I was glad for your efforts in treating me. Without you, I might not have survived to be rescued by my comrades."

Now Beverly did smile, glad to see her former patient so well recovered. "You're very welcome, Vodas."

Riker extended an arm, inviting them to take their seats at the conference table. Smile fading, and feeling slightly anxious despite what she'd said earlier, Beverly sat next to Jean-Luc, at Will's right, with the Cardassians across from them. Alain placed folded hands on the table and looked at each of them in turn before she began.

"Captain Riker, Captain Picard, Doctor Crusher, I will speak frankly. Circumstances do not permit us to offer any formal acknowledgment or apology for what has happened. I trust you will understand that the diplomatic situation remains...delicate. However, I can say two things that you may find acceptable. The first is that, with Glinn Zelet's escape, along with the information he provided while infiltrating the Obsidian Order, the treachery of the Order in working with the Dominion has now been exposed beyond their ability to cover it up. They will fight back, but with the public outcry, their influence has already been weakened. Zelet and I will be returning to Cardassia and the Central Command to shore up the position of the Detapa Council, and continue to build on our alliance with the Federation. This should enable us to finally defeat the Dominion."

"An outcome that we certainly all would welcome," Riker said. "We hope your efforts will meet with success."

Alain inclined her head. "The second matter concerns Gul Madred."

As perfectly disciplined as they were, they made no visible reaction to the name—but Picard felt himself tense inwardly, and Beverly's hands curled into fists on her lap under the table.

"The fact is that he was the one who attacked you, Captain Picard, prior to the treaty negotiations as a way to influence them. I cannot officially say this, of course, but our government plainly lied about the resolution of this matter, and may even have sanctioned it. That the negotiations were ultimately successful for both sides is a testament to you and certainly accrued to the benefit of all of us. That Madred captured and imprisoned another senior officer of the _Enterprise_, without anyone's knowledge, is further treachery, and Doctor, I do not know the reason this was sanctioned, except as another way to damage the Federation's position."

_To damage Jean-Luc_. Beverly squeezed her hands together even more tightly, but kept her gaze steadily on the gul. Picard, listening with an impassive expression, exchanged a measured glance with Riker. The personal motives for the attack, and the fact that Beverly had originally been held with him, Riker had judged should not be shared with the Cardassians. Though it didn't sit well with him for part of the truth to remain hidden, Picard had reluctantly conceded the wisdom.

Alain leaned forward. "I have spoken to certain members of the Central Command and am informed I have discretion to allow you a say in what will happen to Madred—_personally_—in consequence of his actions." A rather cold smile tugged at her lips. "If I were in your position, I expect my decision would be...harsh."

Eyes widening, Beverly looked at Jean-Luc, saw the faint surprise and discomfort in his own expression. Neither of them had expected this, and judging by Will's shifting in his seat even as he held his poker face, Alain hadn't told him about it before, either. The Cardassians were clearly offering the chance to exact retribution on the one person who had been most responsible for all of their suffering...and as the memories suddenly flooded back into her consciousness, a part of her was sorely tempted to exercise it.

But was it the _right_ thing to do? Despite everything that had been done to her, to Jean-Luc, despite that even now she imagined she could still feel the scar burning on the now-healed skin under her collarbone, despite that at times she would have done _anything_ to stop it all, and would have been _justified_—

Shaken by the force of her emotions, Beverly still found that her conscience could not abide the thought of unilaterally sentencing someone, even _him_, the monster who'd shattered her, outside the law to the same, or worse, fate; and as she held Jean-Luc's gaze, she didn't think his conscience could either. Vengeance wouldn't change the past, and most of all she wanted to put this past behind her—light-years behind, preferably at maximum warp—and not look back.

She gave a tiny shake of her head to Jean-Luc and saw the tightness around his eyes ease ever so slightly as he understood her meaning. His voice reflected no uncertainty as turned back to Alain and replied for them.

"Gul Alain, while the consideration does not go unnoted, we have no desire to pursue any course of action based upon _revenge_," Picard said carefully. In truth, he _did_ feel the anger, the hatred, the contempt, did feel the siren call of the desire to _act_ on all of these—but he would not let that baser desire be the master of him. Not when he had a second chance to move forward without it crippling him beyond what it already _had_ done, for too long; and not when Beverly, too, as she communicated to him now, wanted to let go. He was ever astonished by her resilience and strength of spirit; he could not do, or _be_, less than she expected of him in turn. "There has been, perhaps, too much of that in our mutual dealings."

Alain was evidently taken aback, but controlled her reaction as she leaned back and eyed them thoughtfully. "I have found, Captain, that you humans have a rather limited conception of the merits of revenge well taken," she said finally, with a thin smile. "Nevertheless, I will abide by your wishes. It is not revenge that will be meted out in this case, but rather justice. A most inadequate justice, to be sure. But I will ensure that Madred will have no authority to act in this manner ever again, especially with official sanction. Madred will be immediately stripped of his rank and removed from the Central Command." Her eyes narrowed. "_This_, I trust, is acceptable to you."

"I am neither judge nor jury," Picard replied evenly, "and I cannot speak to what your laws may require." He paused, and his voice dropped to a cool murmur. "With that being understood...yes. It is."

Riker let the chilly words hang in the air for a moment before speaking. "I think we can all agree it's not the fate he truly deserves," he said finally, striving to keep the dark edge from his voice. "But we do appreciate your handling of the matter, Gul Alain, especially as a sign of good faith, for the betterment of relations between both our governments."

Alain nodded. "You are most welcome, Captain Riker." She paused and then stood from the table, the rest of her team following her lead. "If that is sufficient, we will depart for Cardassia."

"Of course. I will have you escorted out, with our thanks."

When the Cardassians had left, Riker let out a long breath and glanced between Picard and Crusher, as they stepped closer to each other and Picard's arm slipped protectively around her waist. He smiled inwardly at the sight.

"Thank you for facilitating that, Will," Beverly said softly, feeling the tightness in her chest ease as she leaned against Jean-Luc. "It's good to know that—" She stopped, seemingly uncertain of what she wanted to say.

He reached out to clasp her shoulder. "It's the least I could do. You helped, of course—you picked a good group of dissidents to escape with," he said lightly, and she smiled. "And now Captain, Doctor...I think it's time we headed back to Earth."

Picard considered admonishing his former first officer again about immediately reverting to calling him by title, but judging by the past weeks, the endeavor seemed doomed to failure. Instead, relaxing as Beverly reached for his hand and squeezed it, he raised an eyebrow and glanced up solemnly at the taller man. "If I may, Captain?" Puzzled by the question, Riker nodded, and then he smiled as Picard said, with quiet firmness: "Make it so."


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: I *thought* this story was finished, but my muse apparently still had another chapter in mind for me to write and so here is that homecoming chapter. (And while I know it's really unusual to post this way, I decided to go ahead and slot it in here before the epilogue, rather than publish separately.) The epilogue has been moved, unchanged, to chapter 16. Many thanks to redalert50 for the feedback and suggestions._

#-#-#-#

Goodbyes had been said, meager belongings collected, and now it was time to head—_home_.

As they materialized in the courtyard in front of his house, the bright light of midday sun casting short shadows at their feet, Picard glanced around the familiar grounds and took a deep breath of cool air. After not ever having felt completely settled here since he'd returned, he was somewhat surprised to discover he'd missed it over the past weeks. He caught Beverly's eye and gave a slightly lopsided smile. "Welcome to France."

"_Oh_," she breathed suddenly. "It's so _bright_."

At the unexpected reply he paused, reached out a hand to her elbow. "We can go inside—"

"No." Shivering as a chilly breeze swept through the yard, she wrapped her arms around herself and stood still for a long moment, eyes squeezed closed.

He watched her quietly, letting her work through the attack on her own, as she preferred. While these types of moments had already been happening less frequently over the past week, the two of them were starting over in a new place, he reminded himself, and there were bound to be some new difficulties. Still, he felt helpless at witnessing them, and struggled not to feel upset that it had happened so immediately, as if it was somehow his fault. But he didn't even know what had _triggered_ this...

At last she squared her shoulders and glanced up at him with damp eyes, red wisps of hair blowing across her face. "Sorry, Jean-Luc."

He forced any trace of his own distress away from his expression. "All right?" he asked softly, reasserting his hand at her elbow.

A wan smile. "Yes. It's just—the last time I was outside in sun and fresh air..."

_Was Risa_, he realized, an instant before she said the words. Caught off-guard, he was briefly overwhelmed himself by the thought of how terribly long it had been for her since then, but he tried to shake it off. He smiled reassuringly instead, tugging gently on her arm. "Come on. Let me show you around, and then if you want to come back outside and walk around a bit to enjoy it, we can."

Beverly bit the inside of her lip, frustrated with herself for starting them off on the wrong foot like this, with her inability to keep control of her emotional reactions to seemingly _everything_; she knew it had to have hurt Jean-Luc. But he seemed patient and understanding as ever, steadying her, and so she nodded gratefully. "Sounds like a plan."

"Though I'm afraid there won't be any tropical beaches on our walking tour," he added lightly.

Her smile turned real. "Good to know," she said dryly, falling into step alongside him as he led her over to the front door. He unlocked it with a keycode at the entry and held it open for her. She stepped inside tentatively, glancing around, and hefted her bag of clothes on her shoulder as he moved to turn on the lights. "Where should I put my things?"

"Anywhere you'd like. It's your home now, too." He paused. "Well, considering that, why don't I just show you the upstairs first, where you can put them away."

_He's nervous_, Beverly realized as she followed him up, the wooden stairs creaking slightly under their feet. In some ways it was a strange thing to think about _Jean-Luc Picard_, of all people. But then again, she remembered, in the time he'd lived here he hadn't really had anyone in the house at all—much less _her_. And that had to be the real reason, she admitted to herself: the fact that it was _her_ coming into the home, back into his life, in such an intimate way. For all that he was, always had been, comfortable being around her, she knew the closeness they'd been finding with each other since her return was both new—and something he had always desired.

Feeling a few butterflies herself now, she idly took in the old family photographs in the stairwell and hallways, glimpsed inside the perfectly-appointed guest rooms and washrooms as he pointed them out to her.

At the end of the main hallway Picard hesitated, realizing belatedly that he probably oughtn't _presume_, under the circumstances, the arrangements she preferred. "Beverly, if you would like your own room," he began, but she shook her head to stop him, slipped her hand in his.

"I think we're a little past that point, Jean-Luc, don't you?" she chided gently.

He smiled and squeezed her hand, relieved. "Then this is ours," he said softly, pushing open the door to the master bedroom.

Jean-Luc was a tidy man by nature and habit, and the large room was neatly kept, with rather spare decor. Still, with more natural wood furnishings than existed on the ship or in most other modern living spaces, there was a wonderfully tactile, cozy quality to the room here she hadn't experienced since her grandmother's cottage on Caldos. Looking around, she was also unaccountably happy to recognize familiar objects from his old quarters—the Ressikan flute box and some volumes of Shakespeare displayed on the bookshelves, the Mintakan tapestry draped over the armchair in the corner. It _smelled_ like him, too, with a vaguely woody, masculine scent.

It felt like him. It felt like home.

And yet, she noted a bit wistfully, it didn't feel quite _hers_, no matter how welcoming she knew he meant to be.

She set her bag beside his on the bed and walked over to a crosshatched window, opening the blinds to see the sunny courtyard below, the tall trees blowing in the gardens, the vineyard beyond. She felt him come up beside her, his hand brushing aside the long hair on her back to squeeze her shoulder. "What do you think?" he murmured.

She turned and slid her arms around him, kissed him. "I think it's wonderful. And I think we should come back up here later and get settled in."

Picard raised an eyebrow, more than happy to agree with her suggestion, but seeing the hint of ambivalence in her eyes. "But?"

"But," she admitted with reluctance, "I know things are just _things_, and shouldn't really matter, but I still wish I had a few of my old things to bring in here with yours."

She was hoping the honest answer didn't make him feel bad, but she was surprised to see his eyes widen slightly. "You do," he said, sounding rather surprised himself.

"I do?"

"Yes." He stepped out of her embrace and rubbed the back of his neck, glancing back towards the hallway, remembering. "I, ah—when I left the _Enterprise_, Deanna packed up several of your effects and insisted I take them with me. Of course I wasn't your next of kin, and I tried to decline, but she said until Wesley came back someday, I should be the one to keep them."

Beverly was staring at him in astonishment.

"I—put them away in a closet, because I couldn't—well," and he faltered, leaning back against the wall, "I couldn't face them." It was an understatement; he'd felt like they were burning a hole in the floor of the cargo hold of his transport the entire way home, and had almost literally buried them away as quickly as he could when he arrived, including, apparently, in his mind. He might have punished himself with the _memories_ of everything that had happened, and the guilt, but _tangible_ reminders of her, as she had been—the kinds of things a grieving spouse might cling to—would have been like a consolation he didn't deserve. He swallowed. "I have Jack's things you saved," he said quietly. "And two cases of yours. I'm sorry I didn't remember until now—everything happened so quickly when we left last month."

"Oh, Jean-Luc." She'd spent years herself avoiding that case of Jack's, so she could only imagine how much worse Jean-Luc must have felt. "Thank you for keeping them. I'm so glad you did. Do you know what's in them?"

"No, I don't know. I never looked. I can go find them," he offered, straightening up.

"No, don't worry about it now—it's probably going to make me cry again, and to be honest, I'm kind of tired of doing that." She shook her head with a small smile, glad to see him return it, though he still looked a bit shaken.

"All right." With a quiet exhalation Picard leaned back again, feeling a dull pain settle in behind his eyes. He wasn't sure how he'd managed to lose his handle on the afternoon so quickly, despite all intentions to the contrary, but this looming headache was making it difficult to recenter himself.

Beverly moved to the wall beside him, her hand finding his, and they stayed in silence for a moment. "This coming-back-from-being-deceased thing is very disconcerting, Jean-Luc," she confessed.

"I'm sorry." Not knowing what else to say, trying instead simply to offer, and find, solace through their connection, he turned her slender hand over in his larger one, twined their fingers.

"Then again, I guess it beats the alternative of _not_ coming back from being deceased," she mused, exchanging a sideways glance with him, and even though it wasn't really funny, she started to laugh, and soon, he did, too. The tension rapidly bled out of the room and she leaned against his arm with a sigh, craning her face to brush his cheek. "I love you, Jean-Luc," she told him softly. "Want to get that fresh air?"

"Yes," he said in relief, but in pushing off the wall, he shifted to face her first; and as their eyes met, an entirely different tension suddenly charged the space between them. "If you're still up for coming back later to settle in properly?" he asked in a low murmur. She nodded, dropping her gaze to his lips as her own parted slightly, and with a flash of desire at the sight, he impulsively bent to capture her lips in a brief, intense kiss. "Beverly…"

"Mmm?" She opened her eyes, breathless. How he could do this to her so _easily_...

He wanted to kiss her again, much more thoroughly, but decided to save it for later; and instead, with an effort, he found his voice again. "I love you, too."

#-#-#-#

After he finished showing her around the rest of the house, Picard pulled out his jacket, unused since early spring, from the downstairs closet, while Beverly replicated a lightweight coat for herself. Now appropriately attired for the autumn weather, they headed out of the main grounds of the house, turning away from the main road leading to the village, towards the vineyards.

They had missed the harvest; the long rows of vines were now largely shed of their fruit. But everything still seemed alive in a way Beverly hadn't experienced in far too long, and her senses absorbed it all: the brightness of the sunshine amidst the gathering clouds, the rustle of the grapevines in the cool breeze, the occasional colder gusts of wind that made her pull her jacket more tightly around her. Even with a lifetime spent mainly in deep space, she'd always kept flowers and greenery in her quarters, always spent ample time in the arboretum, and so being in the middle of the acres of vines felt deeply satisfying. But there was a part of her that couldn't quite believe she was really _here_, on Earth, with Jean-Luc, and far away from the colorless, claustrophobic cell where until only weeks ago she had despaired even to _dream_ of ever being this free again. She kept a tight grip on Jean-Luc's hand to anchor her, focusing the sound of his voice as he talked about the land, the grapes, the traditions of the harvest.

Picard stole glances at her as they talked, happy to see the healthy glow on her cheeks, the little smiles that crossed her face as she took everything in, already much more at ease than when they'd arrived. He couldn't help but think back to Risa, too, the last time they'd been so relaxed. At the time he would have thought that setting was ideal—but despite the regrettable lack of tropical beaches in central Europe, he decided it was even more enjoyable being with her here.

Then again, perhaps he'd just be happy to be with her anywhere.

_Well, you're a lost cause_, he told himself dryly. But when it came to Beverly Crusher, he supposed that had always been the case. And her presence here, after the years he'd spent feeling her absence as acutely as an open wound, was a balm to his soul.

They reached the winery and as he was opening the main door for them, the strong smell of the grapes wafting out, a call from one side made him pause.

"_Ça va_, _Jean-Luc_?" A slim, salt-and-pepper-haired man approached from another section of the vineyard with an easy gait, extending his hand.

Beverly stood back a pace as Jean-Luc shook the man's hand and clapped him on the back. "_Oui, ça va bien_," he replied. "_Je reviens aujourd'hui_."

"_Avec une mademoiselle._" The man's eyes twinkled as he looked to Beverly. "I asked myself why you would miss the harvest? Now I see."

"Well, of course I knew I left everything in expert hands." Picard cleared his throat and straightened up to make introductions. "This is Doctor Beverly Crusher. Beverly, this is Jean-Baptiste Matrot, my vineyard manager."

"Beverly, welcome to La Barre. It is a pleasure," Matrot said graciously, in a heavy French accent quite unlike Jean-Luc's, as he gave her a kiss on both cheeks. "You are visiting for awhile?"

Beverly accepted the warm greeting and looked at Jean-Luc with a slight hesitation, but he seemed relaxed. "Thank you. Yes, I'll be staying here. How long have you worked here?"

"Marie hired me a few years ago. Such a lovely woman—she is well?" he asked in concern, and Jean-Luc nodded. "I am glad to hear it. I have known the family for a long time before that, though, and so Jean-Luc kept me on when he came home." He glanced between them with a knowing look. "Hmm. I think Jean-Luc will be very happy to have you here, Beverly."

She smiled, seeing Jean-Luc color slightly. "I hope so."

"If you would like, I can show you around the winery? It is the best time of year," Matrot continued cheerfully, offering Beverly his arm.

Picard shook his head, smoothly maneuvering beside her again with a guiding hand at her back. "Jean-Baptiste," he said patiently, raising an eyebrow, "I may not know quite as much as you about the operations, but I _can_ manage the tour."

"It is your vineyard, Jean-Luc," he agreed, and Beverly hid another smile. "We can speak tomorrow about business? _Bon, ben._ _À demain alors._" He headed off with an amiable wave.

The winery was busy with activity, so in the interests of not overwhelming her, Picard made the tour a shorter one so they could get back outside to the quiet, and the house before sundown. As they ducked back inside, Beverly pulled her jacket off, hanging it in the closet along with his, and then followed him into the kitchen with a thoughtful look. "Jean-Luc, do you remember when you told me about this place, that first night on the ship?"

Pausing in the middle of searching for a particular bottle of wine for them to share during dinner, Picard looked up. "Yes."

"I think you undersold it. It's beautiful." Her expression was soft. "Thanks for letting me come home with you."

"Well, as I recall, you wouldn't let me go off by myself without you," he reminded her wryly, finding the bottle and setting it on the counter before folding his arms. "But Beverly, it is your home now, too. I hope that you'll feel comfortable here."

"I already do." She arched an eyebrow at him, letting her lips curve upwards. "And I look forward to settling in."

#-#-#-#

She had waited another day to unearth the personal cases, and brought them out to the bedroom by herself, wanting to spare Jean-Luc from all the inevitable emotions at sorting through them. She traced the letters on the outside—_Cmdr. Beverly H. Crusher, MD, USS Enterprise, NCC-1701-E_—then laid them open on the bed, staring down at the "effects" that were the sum representation of a _life_, that would have been all that was left for Wesley, and for Jean-Luc, if she'd never made it back from Cardassia.

It was strange to feel so much _grief_ at everything, because she was _here_, after all, wasn't she? She _wasn't_ gone, these were her own things, and if she'd collected them in the course of an ordinary move, unpacking would have been a thoroughly unremarkable activity. But in a sense, a death _had_ occurred—of her life before, of the way things used to be—and so maybe it made a certain kind of sense to mourn, after all. She didn't know. All she knew was that the tears fell freely as she set out the carefully packed items she'd assumed had been lost to her forever: her sky-blue lab coat and Starfleet insignia badge. The old-fashioned stethoscope that had been her medical school graduation gift from Jack. A framed photograph of her and Nana, beaming. Her favorite maroon, paisley-patterned woven blanket. A handful of childhood drawings by Wesley. The comedy/tragedy theatre masks Jean-Luc had given her after one of her productions on the _Enterprise_. Another photograph, this one of her and Jean-Luc at some stuffy admirals' ball he'd unsuccessfully tried to get them out of, but then spent the entire evening attached to her side at.

She studied the photograph, a candid moment caught by the event photographer who'd forwarded it to her after that night. Jean-Luc always grumbled about wearing his dress uniform, but he looked absolutely dashing in it. His head was bent slightly towards hers as they looked at something across the room, with understated amusement in his eyes as she laughed at his private remark, while they stood, as always, just a little bit too close together. It was an intimate moment that she never would have actually displayed, of course, before, but she'd made a hard copy of it at some point because it somehow seemed like a perfect encapsulation of _them_, before there even was a _them_ at all, really.

But now there was.

Not the same _them_ as in the photograph, exactly—not the captain and CMO, anymore. They were different, _changed_—but the picture was who they had been, and it was part of why there was a _them_ to speak of now, why she was sitting here in the room they shared, in the home they were making.

With quiet purpose, she hung the lab coat in the closet, draped the blanket at the end of the bed, set the photographs around the room. Finally, feeling utterly spent but more at peace, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose again, and headed downstairs.

Picard closed his book and rose from his chair as Beverly appeared in the sitting room. He was still getting used to actually seeing her in the house, but a flutter of joy washed over him every time he did. The house felt more alive with her presence. _He_ felt more alive.

He could see from her red-rimmed eyes that, as she'd predicted, she had been crying. As she looked up at him, though, she didn't seem upset, merely tired; but there was a _need_ in her eyes, and he thought that he understood. Wordlessly he moved towards her, wrapping her securely in his arms and pressing his lips into her hair. She let out a trembling breath, arms encircling his waist in return, and rested her head on his shoulder; and they stayed that way, in comforting silence, together, for a long time.


	16. Chapter 16

_Epilogue  
__Twelve weeks later_

"Gentle, now," said Deanna Riker anxiously, as she passed the warm bundle over to him.

Picard grimaced. "I've never been that comfortable around infants," he admitted, accepting the baby rather awkwardly.

Will Riker sighed and shook his head in feigned disappointment. "He's fought the Borg," he told his wife. "Stared down Romulans, gotten into bar fights with Nausicaans, saved the Federation a few times."

"Thank you, _Captain_," said Picard in annoyance, noting Beverly unhelpfully stifling a grin from his other side.

"But he can't hold a tiny baby without being terrified," Riker finished with a flourish.

Deanna laughed. "Stop it, Will," she admonished him, then reached out with one finger to take her baby's hand. The little fingers closed around hers tightly. "Isn't she beautiful?"

"Of course," Will said in exaggerated surprise; "she's _our_ baby, Deanna. What else would you expect?"

Picard glanced up at him. "I think being a father agrees with you," he said dryly, then answered Deanna's question. "She is quite adorable, really." He studied the infant's round face and shock of black hair as she looked around alertly, taking in her parents and godparents with large blue eyes.

"All right, my turn," Beverly beamed, carefully taking over from Jean-Luc and holding the baby up in front of her. "Come here, Natasha. Look at those cheeks!" The baby's face split into a toothless smile, and Beverly laughed in delight. "You are so cute, I can almost forgive you for coming too late for me to be the one to deliver you."

"You're the one who said there's no predicting these things," Deanna protested.

"Hmph." Beverly considered Natasha's cherubic expression, then narrowed her eyes and addressed her directly: "I still think you did it on purpose." The baby gurgled in response. "Just as I thought."

"Beverly, when you're done accusing my daughter of various grievances, maybe we could move along to dinner? I'm expecting an excellent French dining experience," Riker informed her.

The redheaded doctor smirked up at him. "The best French dining the replicator can offer," she replied. "But just for that, Will, you get to help me set it out. Come on, you're conscripted."

"What about excellent French _wine_?" he tried.

"Now that, _maybe,_ but only if you behave yourself." She eased up from the sofa and handed the baby back over to Deanna, before taking an indignant Will by the arm and leading him back to the kitchen.

Amused, Picard shifted farther away from Deanna and clasped his hands over his knees, turning to face her. "So, how are you feeling, Counselor?"

Cradling her daughter on her lap, she chuckled. "I believe that's my line, isn't it? But I'm doing fine. Very tired, of course, but we're so thrilled with this little one." She tilted her head at him, dark eyes turning a bit more serious. "How are _you_ feeling, Jean-Luc?"

"Glad that I've finally managed to convince you not to call me 'sir' all the time," he said wryly. "But is this a professional or personal inquiry? You seem as though you'd like to say something in particular."

"Are you sure you're not the empath?" she teased in her lilting voice. "Well, you're right—I had thought about saying this before the last time we saw you, but now is better." She paused. "You know that things changed for me and Will after you had left the _Enterprise_. Did you ever know why?"

Picard frowned slightly, thinking back. "No." As a private man to begin with, he had never been, nor particularly cared to be, aware of the details of personal relationships among members of his crew, even those he considered friends—excepting only the tidbits of gossip Beverly used to share at their breakfasts. And once he'd _left_, well, he hadn't been aware of much at all, had he. Deanna's gentle manner, though, took any possible sting out of his reflections. "Of course I knew from the time I met you that you had a prior relationship. I suppose I assumed it was a natural progression after Worf had transferred off the ship—was that not the case?"

The baby cooed and kicked out of her swaddling blanket in her arms, and Deanna rubbed at the chubby feet on her lap. "Not exactly. Will and I are _imzadi_, but we probably wouldn't have changed our relationship at all after so much time had passed, simply because it was comfortable. It was you," she said softly.

His frown deepened. "Me?"

"We knew you and Beverly had cared deeply for each other. But until we thought she had died, I don't think even I knew quite how strongly you had felt," she admitted. "That you loved her."

Picard cleared his throat, a bit uncomfortable now. "Yes, well," he said. "I never told you."

"Well, _Beverly_ should have told me at some point, but you know she's as private and stubborn as you are." She smiled to put him at ease again, glad to catch at least a hint of a dry smile in response. "Still, understanding that is what spurred us to change things in our own relationship. We were heartbroken for you...but we finally realized how precious the time really was."

He was taken aback. "I was always happy for you, of course," he murmured.

"I know you were. I'm telling you this now, after some time has passed, because I thought you should know that something good had come even out of something so terrible. And because I believe you and Beverly are _imzadi_, too." She placed a hand on his forearm for a moment, eyes shining. "I'm so glad she is back. And _I'm_ very happy for _you_."

Somewhat bemused, he idly reached out a finger for Natasha's flailing, grasping hand, considering Deanna's words. He wondered if she would ever have told him if Beverly hadn't returned. _Possibly_, he decided, at some point they would have, after the baby was born, after they had finally gotten through to him. Deanna had been his counselor through some of the most difficult times of his life, and hadn't given up on him even through _this,_ when he'd kept her at bay for so long. He didn't know if he would ever truly have healed, but he believed she would have tried everything she could to _help_, in spite of him; and the depth of her caring was humbling. He smiled at his goddaughter, intently pulling his finger towards her mouth, then looked up again. "Thank you, Deanna."

They turned as the others reappeared in the parlor to summon them to eat. "_Monsieur et madames_, I believe the correct phrase is, _bon appétit_," Riker said grandly, ushering them to the dining table, now set with individual servings of traditional Burgundy salad, onion soup with gruyère, and duck confit.

Picard sighed patiently. "We'll have to work on your accent, Will," he said, earning a mock wounded look in reply, and he chuckled. He selected a bottle of Château Picard from the rack in the corner, expertly uncorked it, and began to pour for each of them.

Waiting until Deanna had settled Natasha nearby and returned to take a seat, Beverly pushed her hair back over one shoulder and lifted her glass. "Jean-Luc?" she prompted.

Picard set the bottle aside and thought for a moment, meeting their expectant gazes in turn, and lingering on Beverly's, full of warmth. "To old friends," he said finally, "and second chances." There was a chorus of assent as they clinked glasses.

"_Excellent_ wine," Riker pronounced, after taking an appreciative drink, and shooting a merry look at Beverly.

"Well, it was all me, naturally," she said dryly, exchanging an amused glance with Jean-Luc. "You're just lucky you earned it."

"So, Beverly, are you settling in at work?" Deanna asked, after digging into her salad. "I know it's something with Starfleet Medical, but how is that going?"

"Yes—one of the primary research facilities for Medical is in Paris, so I've connected with them there to start work on a few of the research projects I had never gotten to. The lab is up and running now. It's an easy trip to the city every week and should be just an occasional visit to San Francisco."

"Oh, that's wonderful." Deanna knew her friend had always liked patient-centered work the most—it was a large part of the reason she'd returned to the _Enterprise_ in the early years—but she could sense that Beverly also felt very pleased with the new opportunities here. To move from being head of Starfleet Medical, or CMO of the _Enterprise_, to heading up a satellite lab with a small staff, might seem a step down in any other context; but at least it was _her_ lab, and the change of pace to a quieter, predictable routine was, in Deanna's estimation, greatly beneficial to her long-term recovery and reintegration. After several months here, she _looked_ healthier, and practically radiated contentment.

"I love it," she admitted. "I missed my research. Who knows where it will lead, but for now it's ideal."

Riker cleared his throat and took a sip of wine. "Jean-Luc, I understand the Federation Council has approached you about a role in the diplomatic corps."

Picard raised an eyebrow, breaking off a piece of perfectly crisp baguette—the only part of the meal, aside from the wine, that would have met with his family's old, traditional standards, as he and Beverly had gone into the village this morning for fresh bread. He was quite comfortable with his own, modern standards—but the bread, he conceded to himself, was particularly good. "I wasn't aware word had gotten around."

Riker shrugged ruefully. "I don't think it's _widely_ known, but I try to keep tabs."

"As you should, Captain," Picard said approvingly, eliciting a smile from the other man. "Yes. It appears they are anxious to have me back as an ambassador."

"Romulus has been mentioned," Beverly chimed in. They looked at each other and paused, unspoken communication passing between them.

"Are you considering it?" the counselor asked, sensing the mixture of pride and uncertainty from Beverly, and reticence from Jean-Luc.

"You would be perfect for the job, Jean-Luc," Will said seriously. He hoped he wasn't pushing too much, too quickly, but Picard didn't outwardly appear to be tense. "I can't think of anyone else in Starfleet, except Ambassador Spock, of course, with your skill and experience..."

Picard held up a hand, shaking his head. "I appreciate that, Will. And I won't reject it out of hand," he promised. "But the truth is that I'm not anxious to start traveling again—not quite yet, at any rate."

"Of course. There's plenty of time."

_Summer's lease hath all too short a date..._ "Perhaps so. But for now," he said, looking back to Beverly, "I am simply trying to make the most of the present…"

#-#-#-#

Later that evening, after the Rikers had left, she was tidying up from dinner when Jean-Luc found her. "That can wait until morning," he suggested in a smooth tone, leaning next to her, reaching around to hand her a glass of wine.

His voice caused a delightful shiver to pass through her and her lips curved upwards as she turned around, brushing against him. "You're very persuasive, Jean-Luc," she murmured, and the corners of his hazel eyes crinkled in satisfaction as he held out a hand. She took it, following him to the great room in the rear of the house where the fireplace crackled in the hearth, and sank onto the comfortable sofa there beside him with a relaxed sigh. For awhile they rested there in contented silence, and she let her thoughts drift. The reflections of light danced on her glass, flickering in her peripheral vision as she stared into the flames.

_I love firelight_, she mused silently, and she remembered the moment, years ago, when he'd said the same words at the same time, as their link on Kesprytt became strong enough to fully share their thoughts, their minds.

And she remembered the moment that followed, when she first truly realized Jean-Luc had been in love with her.

The guilt had existed then, too, for entirely different reasons, and her heart hurt to think on it. His love had always been so steadfast, if only carefully expressed within the bounds of their friendship. But while she'd been able to reassure him of her _friendship_, to banish the guilt and strengthen their bond, she'd been too afraid, waited too long, to take the first, tentative steps towards returning his _feelings_. What had she even feared—losing what they had, losing him? Maybe—for she'd suffered that kind of loss before. But how terribly, foolishly shortsighted she had been, because when the horror of fears beyond anything she could have imagined came to pass, when she'd lost her freedom, lost him, lost _everything_—had been shattered into a million pieces—the _only_ thing left was the memory, and hope, of that love. Love that she had never truly been able to tell him she felt, too. What if he had _never_ known, had suffered the guilt anew without _ever_ having hope of respite? That it had taken her so long to have the chance to finally _show_ him her feelings, beyond those innocent, too-brief moments in the shuttlecraft, _before_, she knew she would always regret.

But sometimes—that _wasn't_ the end. Sometimes you _could_ go back, could cobble the pieces back together, could atone for the regrets. _Second chances_, Jean-Luc had said earlier, and she felt a flood of gratitude sweep through her as she pressed closer to him—for the kind of happiness she knew with him now...was also beyond what she could have imagined.

Picard studied her profile, light and shadow in the firelight, and she seemed far away. "Penny?"

At their familiar phrase, Beverly turned a wry look at him, shrugged slightly. For all that she appreciated the memory of the telepathic intimacy they'd shared on Kesprytt, she thought it was for the better to be able to exercise _discretion_ on what thoughts to share aloud. Love, fear, regret—it was all a bit heavy, after all, for a peaceful evening in front of the fire, wasn't it. But one thing did nag at her... "Do you miss it?" she asked softly.

His forehead creased in question, and she clarified: "The _Enterprise_. Starfleet."

"Sometimes," he admitted, brushing a thumb on her arm. "Perhaps. But I'm not the same man I was when I left."

"You're still Jean-Luc Picard. They would have you back in a nanosecond if you asked. They _have_ asked."

He looked at her steadily. "Beverly, why are _you_ asking?"

"I suppose just seeing Will and Deanna again. Will's right, you know—you _are_ the best at this. If the Federation needs you..."

"And you are the best at what you do," he countered. "You were the _head_ of Starfleet Medical, Beverly. They won't want you to stay in Paris forever. You know that."

She grimaced, fingering the stem of her wine glass. She _did_ know that, but she didn't want to face it, not yet, so she pushed past it. "But you left because of me," she persisted. "Jean-Luc, I don't want to hold you back, if this isn't where you're really meant to be."

"Nor do I want to hold you back from what makes you happy, and makes the most of your talents." He smiled, but his eyes were slightly pained now; they had been avoiding a real discussion of this, though he knew they'd have to reckon with it at some point. "You're uniquely experienced, resourceful, and brilliant. I suspect you could return to any posting you asked."

She shook her head in frustration, looking down, putting her glass off to one side. "But I don't want 'any posting,' if it would take me away from you."

"Well, that's the crux, isn't it." He set his own wine glass on the coffee table and reached up to brush her hair, gently turning her face back towards him. "I don't want to go back, either, if it would take me away from you. I've given most of my life to Starfleet, in service to others, and though I do not regret it, it cost me, perhaps, too much. Beverly, I'm _happy_ here now, with you, as long as you'll have me, as long as you'll do me the honor of staying with me."

Beverly regarded him seriously, studying the lines of his handsome features in the flickering light as he held her gaze intently. "Forever, I think," she said, her voice soft.

The look of pure happiness that came to his eyes in response made her stomach flutter. "That sounds ideal," he agreed warmly, brushing his thumb on her cheek, and he leaned in to kiss her.

She closed her eyes, pressing against him, feeling the familiar heat between them rising quickly as her heart began to race. After several long moments she pulled back to catch her breath, face flushed and glowing in the firelight, and gave him a slightly impish look. "Well, all right then, Jean-Luc. If the galaxy needs Beverly Crusher and Jean-Luc Picard, it can have us—_together_."

"Quite right." He smiled and leaned in again, hands drifting lower, and brought his lips beside her ear as he murmured, "But the galaxy can wait for awhile yet, don't you think?"

#-#-#-#

_A/N: Whew! There are some masterful P/C writers out there who have written novels many times this long (like mabb5 and Ke Roth), but for me, this was by far the most extensive, longest work I've undertaken, and it was a lot more challenging and emotionally taxing of a writing exercise than I expected. I really tried to stay true to the characters, both as they usually are and as I think they would be after the events of the story, and I would love to hear if you thought it was at all plausible (and if you liked the happier ending!). I also hope you can tell how much I love these characters (including Will and Deanna) despite everything I put them through. Thank you (y mil gracias) to readers, including Picru and Guest, who have left such nice feedback along the way but I couldn't thank directly. _


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